


don't save the world, save yourself

by HowDoTheyRiseUp



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), White Collar
Genre: Dick Grayson is not Nightwing, Gen, Heists, Implied/Referenced Harm to Children, Implied/Referenced Violence, Neal Caffrey is Dick Grayson, Robin: Year One AU, Tim Drake is Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowDoTheyRiseUp/pseuds/HowDoTheyRiseUp
Summary: He’d chosen justice once, and it hadn’t brought them back. He’d chosen vengeance once, and he’d betrayed everyone and everything that mattered.Or;Neal Caffrey hates guns.





	1. Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Quinis' multiple fantastic DC/WC crossovers! Although this AU diverges from comics canon after the events of Robin: Year One, expect dates/ages to be fudged more than a little. Based mostly pre-reboot, with maybe a few details from New 52 thrown in. I do not own Batman or White Collar, and believe me, I definitely do not profit from this work.

your body still your body

your arms still wing

your mouth still a gun

 

          you tragic, misfiring bird

 

you have all you need to be a hero

don’t save the world, save yourself

 

you worship too much & you worship too much

 

when prayer doesn’t work:      dance, fly, fire

 

this is your hardest scene

when you think the whole sad thing might end

 

but you live      oh, you live

 

everyday you wake you raise the dead

 

          everything you do is a miracle

 

 

— _a note on the body_ , Danez Smith

 

* * *

 

He knew the deal was a bad idea from the moment he proposed it. It was tempting in all the worst ways, the kind of ways that risked him falling back on… call them old habits.

It was better, actually, that the other agents treated him with varying levels of thinly-veiled distrust. He was _the criminal_ ; not quite one of them, for all that he was a useful asset. _A tool in my belt_ , Rice would call him. And sure, it was hurtful, it was humiliating, but hurt and humiliated was safer than Peter standing there like Justice incarnate, the word _partners_ falling so easily from his lips.

_We’re partners?_

_You tell me_.

(Mozzie thinks he understands, and maybe Neal should feel guilty about that, but— he’d never actually _lied_ to Moz so much as he’d made certain… vague statements and, yes, he might’ve known that Mozzie would draw certain conclusions from there, but he hadn’t _lied_. Not really. It’s a fine line, but that’s what people like them are made of, really. And it isn’t like Mozzie doesn’t have secrets of his own.)

He’s getting in too deep, he knows it, and every day, every case, it gets a little bit worse: Peter claps him on the shoulder, tells him, _Good job today_ ; Cruz asks his opinion on a cold case she’s been working and doesn’t scowl too much when he offers up what he knows of the counterfeit electronics industry; the probie comes back from a coffee run and leaves a plain black coffee, French roast, right on the corner of his desk. It’s nothing special compared to what June has on offer every morning, but it’s a damn sight better than the sludge that the FBI’s coffee machine spits out. The first time it happens, some part of Neal can’t help but tense up, wondering if it’s some sort of trick, or a prank, or some kind of test. But no one’s even paying attention to him, no one’s watching to see if he drinks it or leaves it or tips it down the sink. So he drinks it and says nothing and makes sure to slip some cash in Blake’s pocket as a thank you.

(He should be keeping his eyes on what’s really important, on _finding Kate_ , but this feels important too. Tara’s smile after they gotten the bomb off her, shaky but _alive_. Julianna’s look of wonder and distant loss as she met her namesake’s sweet painted gaze once more. The satisfaction of seeing Hagan led away in cuffs, fuming and furious.)

He might not be one of them, but he’s not… _not_ either. Peter doesn’t trust him with his pocket change, but he trusts him with his life and it’s impossible not to return that trust. To let his guard down, just a little.

By now, you’d think he’d have learned better.

He gets sloppy; when they call him in and there’s a dead body on the ground, it isn’t hard to let himself look rattled (no one ever likes that part of the job, not even Him). He tries to excuse himself, to talk himself out of the situation before Peter’s too-sharp eyes pick up on something they shouldn’t, and then—

Sometimes, the way He’d talk about it, you’d think that it was an addiction. Maybe it is. Because once he lets the crime scene, the puzzle of it, get its hooks in him, he forgets that Neal Caffrey only has experience on one side of a crime scene. He forgets that his only suit is a Devore three-piece and his only mask is a smile.

He thinks, _This is a Test_.

He thinks, _What do you see, chum?_

He’s lucky that Peter’s tunnel vision can be just as bad as his own when he’s hooked on a new case; for once, his too-keen Caffrey-sense seems content to remain dormant.

Of course, later, he would realize that Aldis Grey wasn’t the only mystery that Peter had been preoccupied with. It’s not the first time that Alex has been this angry with him and it undoubtedly will not be the last, so it’s a little bit surprising just how much Peter’s actions _hurt_.

He’d gone behind his back— invaded Neal’s privacy, his _friend’s_ privacy, kept him out of the loop, treated him like a child. It was paranoid, controlling, paternalistic.

It was really fucking familiar.

In that moment, it’s not even really Peter that he’s angry with; it’s himself. Old habits, old patterns— he might as well be just another junkie, seeking out exactly the same situations that got him into trouble in the first place.

Because, with the benefit of time and distance, he knows that it _is_ an addiction. The Mission. _His_ Mission. You think you’re in control, you think you could get out if you really needed to, but it drags you down deeper and deeper. Changes you.

He’d made himself a promise, all those years ago, that he would never become that again.

So he’d set guidelines. Built a framework of what he could and could not do, who he could and could not be, so that he wouldn’t find himself in situations where he would be tempted. And now here he is throwing each and every one of those carefully written rules away. Throwing himself right back down that hole that he’d worked so hard to escape.

The gun in his face is a wake-up call.

Pierce is clearly no amateur; even if he hadn’t known about Aldis Grey, he’d have been able to see it in the way she holds the gun, in the way that she lets him think he has a chance of walking away from this alive. She’s killed before.

But she’s expecting Neal Caffrey, non-violent conman. She’s not expecting him.

He sees eight different ways he could disarm her. Four that wouldn’t even give her time to fire a shot. Five ways to get her into a hold, where she could struggle until her arm snapped under the force of her own body weight. Two ways to take the gun himself, to pull the trigger and watch red blossom across her slinky dress.

His hands are shaking, and he knows she thinks it’s because he’s afraid of the gun. He is. But not when it’s in _her_ hands.

This is why there are rules.

Peter will never know how close he came to spilling blood in his home.

That’s not to say that Neal never considers telling him— well, not _everything_. Some. The stuff that Mozzie knows, or thinks he knows.

The first time Peter sees him without a shirt, he stops dead in the doorway of his apartment. It takes Neal a second to understand the sudden, righteous fury in his face.

He shrugs on a shirt quickly after that, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious.

“It’s nothing,” he snaps when Peter starts to pry and dig. “Old scars. Leave it, okay?”

Peter won’t, of course, but he’ll pretend to.

And it will send him looking in all the wrong directions, and that has to be a good thing, right?

Except that for the next few days he catches Peter watching him carefully when he thinks Neal’s not looking, and it makes him _angry_.

_These?_ he wants to say, _These are nothing. You should see the other guy_.

Except then Kate dies and Neal will be the first to admit he kind of loses it and Fowler nearly _is_ the other guy.

It’s probably his only streak of luck all day that nobody questions how he managed to parkour his way across a fifteen-foot gap between balcony and window.

_Listen to me,_ Peter says. _If you pull that trigger, you will regret it for the rest of your life, Neal. You're not a killer_.

But he is. He crossed that line a long time ago, and now… now it’d be so easy to cross it again. Why not? Fowler deserves it. He _killed Kate_. And there’s already blood on his hands that hasn’t washed off after ten years, so what does it really matter if there’s a little more? His hand spasms on the grip. His finger tightens on the trigger.

And then—and it’s the stupidest thing—he thinks of Jones singing that dumb little song under his breath.

_Na na na na na na na na…_

He’d been, what, ten? It had seemed like the funniest thing in the world. He’d sung it every night they’d gone out for almost three months, until someone caught him doing it and the clip ended up on the 7 o’clock news. After that, there’d been no stopping it. It had been just too infectious. And then somewhere along the line, it had become _official_.

(He’d gotten a hell of a lecture about professionalism and discretion, but he’d always gotten away with so much more than anyone else had with Him. Nobody ever seemed to understand that.)

… _na na na na na na na na…_

Peter couldn’t have known, when he lectured him on _justice, not vengeance_ , that it’s a lecture he’s been getting his whole life. He’d chosen justice once, and it hadn’t brought them back. He’d chosen vengeance once, and he’d betrayed everyone and everything that mattered. He’s spent a decade regretting that choice, trying to rebuild what he’d lost.

Peter’s still talking to him, pleading with him.

_This isn’t who you are_.

No. It’s not. Because he chooses not to let it be.

( _It isn’t who I am underneath, it’s what I do that matters…_ )

He lowers the gun.

… _Batman!_


	2. Emic and etic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Peter has a _thing_ about Batman,” Diana explains, not quite sotto voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In anthropology, folkloristics, and the social and behavioral sciences, emic and etic refer to two kinds of field research done and viewpoints obtained: emic, from within the social group (from the perspective of the subject) and etic, from outside (from the perspective of the observer).
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emic_and_etic

He knows the worst has happened as soon as he sees the set of Peter’s jaw.

“No,” he says, standing, hands out in front of his body as if he can ward off the words he knows are coming. “No, Peter, _no_.”

“Neal,” Peter begins lowly, and dreads sinks into his stomach.

“I _can’t_ ,” he says. “Peter, please no. Not again.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “Neal,” he says again, and Neal knows that tone; there’s no escaping this.

“Alright,” he says— empty, defeated. “I understand.” His whole body sags, dragged down by despair.

Peter claps him on the shoulder. “Suck it up. You’re on van duty.”

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Neal moans, as Diana appears at Peter’s elbow with yet another stack of mysterious forms for Peter to sign. He catches her eye, hoping for a bit of commiseration, but she just rolls her eyes.

“You’ll be fine,” Peter dismisses. “Instead of sitting still for a couple of hours, you _could_ be stuck in an even smaller box for four _years_. In prison,” he clarifies, in case there was someone within a fifty mile radius who couldn’t pick that up.

“Yeah, I got it,” Neal says sullenly. “At least in prison it didn’t smell like deviled ham and bureaucracy.”

“Bureaucracy has a smell? You’re starting to sound like Mozzie.” Peter hands the stack back to Diana and she disappears just as efficiently as she had appeared. Sometimes, Neal thinks, the fact the she _doesn’t_ have superpowers is scarier than her having them could ever be. “Also, are you seriously trying to argue that _prison_ smells good?”

“I didn’t say it smells _good_ , I said that it doesn’t have someone shoving that crime against cuisine that you call a sandwich under my nose.” Neal crinkles said orifice; “Plus, even a prison block gets cleaned more often than that van. I should know, I spent a month on janitorial once. When was the last time someone cleaned inside that van— 1972?”

Peter scowls but notably chooses not to argue the point. “You’re in the van tonight. No excuses, no weaseling out of it. Got it?”

“Got it,” Neal sighs morosely.

In all honesty, he’s not sure why he dreads the van so badly. Surveillance is nothing new to him; why, even at the height of his _criminal_ career, he’d never let himself forget the importance of proper reconnaissance. He’d been on jobs that had required days of watching from much more uncomfortable positions that the FBI van.

He knows how to watch and wait. How to sink into that place where he observes and records every detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

But it feels different, somehow, when he’s in the van. Vigilance becomes hyper-vigilance; he wasn’t kidding when he complained about Peter’s deviled ham. Scents, movement, the sound of a pen tapping, someone shifting slightly in their chair— it’s all so _much_. It’s like his senses think he’s back in Goth— back _there_ , where every shift in the air could be an attack, every new scent could be covering gas, every muffled sound could be a stifled cry for help.

It makes his head hurt.

That being said, it’s… interesting. To watch the rest of the team work. Officially-sanctioned, non-corrupt law enforcement is not something he has a lot of first-hand experience with. He’d never really considered, before, the complexity and frustration of negotiating jurisdictions, or the powerlessness of being able to see events unfolding and lacking the authorization to act. He’d known about warrant law before the Dutchman case but it had… never really seemed to apply.

He’d only been a little surprised when, after Hagan was safely deposited in a cell, Peter had caught him by the shoulder and said, “You can’t pull that again.”

Neal had given him his best showman’s grin. “Come on, Peter, you know me, I never pull the same trick twice. Got to keep it interesting!”

“Neal, I’m serious,” Peter had said. “I can swing it this time, say that you didn’t understand what you were doing. But if you do something like this again, it’ll get the whole case thrown out— violating constitutional rights. It could mean a very bad person gets to walk. And— I’ll be forced to treat you like a real fleeing prisoner. When I catch you—and we both know I will—they’ll revoke your deal. Send you back to finish out your four years, if you’re lucky. If you’re not, they’ll add even more time for another escape attempt. You’ll be in maximum security, no chance of parole. There won’t be anything I’ll be able to do. Do you understand?”

His eyes were so genuinely concerned that Neal felt sobered. And— touched.

“I understand,” he’d said. “I can’t promise that I’ll always be able to color within the lines, but— Peter, you have my word that I will do my best to never put you in that position.”

In honor of that promise, he does his best to stay _in_ the van and _out_ of trouble (he _does_ try, but— if he sees a golden opportunity, Peter can hardly expect him to let it just pass him by, can he?).

He’d been raised to respect those who dedicated their lives to law enforcement, but there had always been that sense of arrogance, hadn’t there?

By His standards, the real police had always been under-trained, under-equipped, and under suspicion; after all, how could a civil police force, or even a federal agency, compete with the kinds of resources and equipment He had lying around almost literally in his backyard? How could a bunch of schmucks who worked a 9-5 for a wage and a pension (and, it being Gotham, a little bit on the side) ever match the kind of drive that came from an unspeakable tragedy? Even the best of them, the most righteous, saw a duty.

For B, it was a _crusade_.

Who could live up to that?

…except, sitting in the van with the monitors running and Jones and Peter arguing basketball and Diana complaining about the coffee, he thought that maybe, just maybe… they could.

They don’t have a Mission. They haven’t devote their lives to mastering the martial arts. They don’t stalk the streets at all hours of the night. In fact, with the occasional (frequent) exception of Peter, most of them leave by 5 p.m. most days. They don’t have the statistical impact on crime of a Superman or a Flash or a Wonder Woman or even a Green Lantern.

But they go home with clean knuckles. They don’t beat suspects until they piss themselves with pain and fear. They care about warrants and probable cause and civil rights. They don’t (again, with the occasional exception of Peter) spy on their friends or create contingency plans or use people like pawns.

They don’t create Jokers. Or Hugo Stranges. Or Two Faces. They don’t create Robins.

They don’t leave behind tombstones for fifteen-year-old boys.

 

* * *

 

“Ok, no,” Jones says. “I can’t even tell you how wrong you are right now.”

“Excuse me?” Diana says, but she’s laughing. “ _I’m_ wrong? _I’m_ not the one who’s arguing that _the Flash_ could take Wonder Woman in a fight!”

“He’s _the fastest man in the world_ ,” Jones protests. “She wouldn’t even see him coming! He’d win in two seconds flat, and that’s _if_ he felt like taking it slow.”

“In your dreams,” Diana scoffs. “Wonder Woman is a total bad-ass, and she’s literally indestructible. The Flash has gotta slow down sometime, and then— _bam_.”

“Just because _you_ have a crush—” Jones retorts, smirking, and Diana gets him right in the face with the last Boston creme pie.

The van is just about as bad as he’d expected it to be (complete with _eau de ham et mayonnaise_ ), and he can’t even remember how they got onto the topic of superheroes.

“Peter, man, back me up,” Jones appeals. “I’m not saying Wonder Woman doesn’t kick ass and make it look good—I’m not crazy—but who would win in a fight, her or the Flash?”

Peter purses his lips in mock contemplation. “Sorry, Jones, but I’m with Diana on this one. Wonder Woman, hands down.”

Jones makes a noise of exaggerated aggravation. “Fine, gang up on me. But can we all at least agree that Aquaman is the lamest hero in the JL?”

Peter frowns. “What’s wrong with Aquaman? I _like_ Aquaman.”

“Really, man?” Jones deadpans. “He _talks to fish_. That’s his superpower. Fish, Peter.”

“He can also summon tidal waves and stuff,” Diana says reasonably, toying with half a cruller. “I mean, if I could choose a superpower, I don’t know if I’d go for that one, but it’s better than some of them.”

“Well, what _would_ you go for?”

Diana smirks and flexes. “Super-strength, all the way. What about you?”

“I’d go high-tech,” Jones says immediately, “like my boy Cyborg. Nowadays? That’s the whole world at my fingertips.”

Diana frowns. “He’s half-robot, that’s not a superpower.”

“Oh, it totally is.”

“Whatever, fine.” Diana waves it off. “You’re being pretty quiet over there, Neal. What about you?”

“Huh? Oh.” Neal shakes himself out of his thoughts, which is probably for the best. “What was the question?”

“If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

Well, that’s easy enough. “I’d love to be able to fly,” he says wistfully, remembering another time (another life), when he’d stretched out over a red-caped shoulder to drag his fingers through the clouds.

“Why am I not surprised,” Peter says dryly, but there’s something fond in it.

Neal winks at him. “Don’t get too comfortable. I don’t need superpowers to fly. But to be able to get up there— that would be something else.”

“You don’t need superpowers to fly?” Diana repeats dubiously. “That sounds like bullshit to me. Unless you got a pilot’s license or something that you forgot to mention.”

He lets his smirk grow, keeps his voice mysterious. “Something like that.”

“Just flying? That’s it?” Jones says, sounding unimpressed. “No super-strength or laser-eyes or nothing? Man, you’d get your ass kicked, Bird-Man.”

“ _Bird-Man?_ ” Neal echoes, not sure whether to laugh or be offended ( _he doesn’t know he doesn’t know he doesn’t know_ ). “And since when do you need super-strength or laser-eyes—seriously? Laser-eyes?—to win a fight? Batman—”

Peter huffs loudly, pointedly, and Neal distinctly hears Diana mutter, “Oh, here we go.”

“What?” Neal demands, defensive for a reason he can’t quite name.

All of Peter’s relaxed amusement has faded, and he’s turned back to the monitors with a heavy scowl.

“Peter has a _thing_ about Batman,” Diana explains, not quite _sotto_ voice.

“It is not a _thing_ ,” Peter denies. He jabs viciously at the keyboard, gaze still fixed stubbornly on the monitor.

“What’s wrong with Batman?” Neal asks before he can think about it, and then he kind of does want to laugh. If there ever was an _expert_ on everything that’s wrong with Batman…

Peter’s teeth grind audibly together. “Batman,” he says, with forcibly subdued heat, “is _not_ a superhero. He’s a _vigilante_.”

Neal looks at Peter in his G-Man Brooks Brothers suit, at the gun and badge that sit on him like a second skin and, yeah, that makes sense. But—

“I’ve known you to go a little _vigilante_ yourself, Cowboy,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Peter catches the reference; he flushes but holds his ground. “That was different. It was the only way to prove Larssen framed me. And even if we bent the rules a little bit, no one got hurt. We didn’t beat a confession out of anyone or tamper with evidence or dangle someone off a rooftop. And if you remember, the only reason we had to run a sting in the first place is because they thought I abused my authority to plant the evidence in the first place— Batman? With the way he runs circles around the cops over there, he’s not accountable to _anyone_. As long as he’s going after the ‘criminals’, no one cares. No one stands up for the people he hurts, or the people who get caught in the crossfire when some new wack-job wants his attention.”

The worst part is, it’s nothing Neal hasn’t thought before. Batman… he _isn’t_ accountable to anyone most of the time. It’s not like people haven’t tried to rein him in, but short of putting a bullet in his head, there’s not much anyone can do when he makes up his mind.

But at the same time, it isn’t fair the way Peter says it— and that’s not Peter’s fault, he’s just working without vital information. He doesn’t know how B has devoted himself to every possible discipline of forensic science and probably invented a few more besides; he doesn’t know how meticulously he catalogues evidence and writes reports and indexes even the most esoteric facts of every case; he hasn’t seen how Batman struggles to find trustworthy contacts in the GCPD, detectives who are honest enough not to take bribes and _good_ enough to put the victims first; he hasn’t watched him torture himself over each person he couldn’t save. He doesn’t understand that Gotham isn’t just another rough city. It’s a jungle, and the beasts are always hungry.

“But I don’t need to tell _you_ any of this, do I?”

Neal’s head whips around. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?” ( _he doesn’t know he doesn’t know he doesn’t know_ )

Peter has that particular expression he gets when thinks he knows something that Neal doesn’t know he knows. “Come on, Neal,” he says. “It’s pretty obvious, when you think about it.”

( _HE DOESN’T KNOW HE DOESN’T KNOW HE DOESN’T KNOW)_

“I don’t know what you mean,” Neal says, lips numb.

“You’ve hit every other major art city in the country, and about a dozen others in Europe. D.C., Boston, Metropolis, Chicago,” Peter lists. “But never Gotham. In fact, when you were after that El Greco, we had you following for three stops in the tour and then as soon as you found out it was going to Gotham, you just dropped it entirely.”

“Allegedly,” Neal dodges, “not every plan works out. The mark of a good con is to know when to cut your losses.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter says, unconvinced. “Come on, Neal. Just admit it.”

“There’s nothing to admit.”

“Sure there is.” Peter leans forward, almost gleeful.

_Peter, don’t say it; please, please don’t say it._

“You’re _scared_ of the Batman.”

It takes a moment for the words to register, because— really? Peter thinks _that’s_ his big, dark secret?

Neal laughs.

People (mostly women) have told him that he has a great laugh. Other people (mostly Mozzie) have told him that his real laugh—not the one he uses for his marks—can get kind of creepy. Especially when other people can’t see the joke.

“Peter,” he snickers, “you think I won’t go to Gotham because of _Batman?_ Out of everything in that godawful _pit_ , you think I’d be scared of _Batman?_ ”

Peter looks temporarily discomfited. “Well…”

“What,” Neal continues, “because I’m a criminal? So that means that Batman is the _worst_ thing that could happen to me if I went to Gotham?”

“I didn’t…”

“Batman doesn’t kill,” Neal says, still smiling. From the unnerved looks on Diana and Jones’ faces, he probably looks pretty manic. “You know who does kill, Peter? The Joker kills. The Penguin kills. Even the Riddler kills sometimes. You know those names? You know what those guys _really_ don’t like? They don’t like it when outsiders come into their city and start thinking they can pull scores.”

He sees Peter make a face at that and, yeah, he’s definitely seen the stories about Gotham.

“Nobody works in Gotham and survives unless they pledge to one of the big names.”

“And, Peter,” he continues, looking him dead in the eye, “There is not a score in the world that would make me tie myself to one of those _monsters_.”

He leaves that to hang in the air.

“I’m not arguing on that one,” Jones says, hunching over a bit in his chair. “Gotham is _crazy_. And that’s before you get into the whole Batman-and-Robin thing. You know, I saw this article in _Wired_. They went back through all the old archive photos, back to the real blurry Bigfoot ones back when everybody still thought Batman was just an urban myth, right? And so they ran all those photos through a bunch of tests, and they were saying that there’ve been, like, six Robins.”

Even Neal raises an eyebrow at that, though probably for a very different reason than the rest of them. “Six?” he repeats doubtfully. Sure, he hasn’t kept _that_ close of an eye on Gotham ( _liar_ ), but it’s pretty easy to tell when Robin has been recast.

Or maybe that’s just because he already knows— with the exception of the girl (and he’s still not sure what happened _there_ ), keeping an eye out for the newest celebrity adoption is probably a lot easier than poring over cape-chasers’ candids.

“Messed up, right?” Jones leans back in his chair, satisfied. “Makes you wonder where he gets ‘em all.”

_Orphans-R-Us, probably,_ Neal thinks uncharitably.

“Ugh.” Diana makes a face. “I guess it makes sense, though. I remember seeing Robin on the news when I was in, what, high school? By now he’d probably be almost your age, Neal.”

She can’t know that Neal Caffrey had written himself 4 years older when he’d first arrived in New York. He laughs it off. “How old do you think I _am?_ ” he says, mock-offended.

“No, no, Diana’s onto something,” Jones says, leaning forward. “You are about the right age and you fit the profile— you got something to tell us, Caffrey?”

“You got me,” Neal says, completely seriously. “I used to fight crime dressed in green scaly panties and pixie boots.”

Jones and Diana howl with laughter, and even Peter cracks a smile before his attention is caught by something on the monitor.

“Look who decided to show,” he says, already reaching for a set of headphones. “Alright, Boy Wonder, time for you to earn your keep.”

Later, after the evidence has been recorded and Peter has hustled them back to the FBI building to start the process of obtaining an arrest warrant and magnanimously allowed the rest of them to head back home for three full hours of sleep before they’re expected back in the office, Jones catches up to him in the lobby.

“Hey, Caffrey, hold up!” he calls, and Neal slows enough that Jones can fall into step beside him. “Heading home?”

Like his anklet pinging from anywhere other than Riverside Dr. at this time of night wouldn’t have Peter interrogating him for a good half an hour the next morning.

“Was hoping to squeeze in at least a couple hours sleep before it’s back to the grind,” he says easily.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jones giving him a funny look.

“Peter didn’t tell you?”

“Didn’t tell me what?”

“Don’t worry about tomorrow— or, uh, today now. Peter can’t officially tell us to play hooky, but when the whole team’s up all night in the surveillance van, no one expects us in until, like, 3. Peter’ll probably run home to see Elizabeth and change clothes and then come right back, because he’s Peter, but you can sleep in.”

“Oh.” Peter hadn’t mentioned it; probably it hadn’t even occurred to him that the _consultant_ wouldn’t already know, not like the real agents would. “I’ve worked on less sleep before, I don’t mind coming in.”

Jones shrugs loosely, unconcerned, but Neal knows from hours of poring over case files and crime scene photos that Jones is even more observant than he’s usually willing to let on.

“Peter’d probably appreciate the help,” Jones acknowledges, “not that he’d ever say it. But he also prefers his team _rested_. It’s your choice, Caffrey.”

The choice of words is not coincidental: _Peter’s_ team; _Peter’s_ choice who to include, and he has made it clear in so many ways that he has chosen Neal.

Neal feels a sudden burst of appreciation for Clinton Jones and smiles at him. It’s not the showman’s smile, but something a little bit more real.

Jones sees it and grins back, bumping their shoulders.

“Hey,” he says. “You survived the Batman rant. There’s no going back now, you’re stuck with us. Bet you never thought you’d be part of a team like this, huh?”

B would never have approved of him going into law enforcement the traditional way— and even like this, where there’s no chance of him ever being handed a gun, Neal can imagine the look of disappointment. Disgust, even, for a criminal who thinks he can still play a hero.

But here he is.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t think I ever did.”

Maybe if he manages to stick around for long enough without fucking up, he’ll get that ten-year pin after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aquaman always gets picked on. Poor guy.
> 
> Can't promise anything like regular updates, but I'll do my best to keep 'em rolling out.
> 
> Next time: Daddy Issues, like that wasn't a big enough theme already


	3. Father Figures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy Issues, like that wasn't a big enough theme already.

There’s a man—a rich man, a powerful man, a man with connections—and his son.

His son, who he hasn’t talked to in years.

His son, who fled halfway across the world to escape the shadow of his father.

“What kind of father is that?” he demands as they walk out into the late August sun. He feels restless, full of energy in a way that he can never quite satisfy these days. His palms itch for the feel of rough brick and concrete.

Peter’s more pragmatic about the whole thing. “His job puts Chris at further risk, so he came to us sub-rosa instead to protect him.”

“Tough love?” Neal scoffs.

“It's what my father would have done.”

“Your dad was a bricklayer, not a diplomat,” Neal shoots back, irritated, and Peter takes it more gracefully than he probably deserves.

“Okay, so he would've tried to break through the mortar walls of the prison first instead, but he would've done the same thing.” Of course he would have— Peter had been a good kid, a good son. The worst trouble he’d probably ever got in was for staying out past curfew, maybe having a couple of beers while he was still underage. And Neal knew from off-hand comments that Peter and his dad had been close, are still close in spite of the 4-hour drive-up between them.

And Chris’ dad said that he was a good kid too, for all that they didn’t talk anymore.

Peter could be right (again, it was kind of annoying how often he was), this could be Wilson’s honest attempt to keep Chris’ situation from getting any worse, but something feels off about the whole thing. It’s one thing to hide the relationship from the Burmese, but another to keep it from the people who are trying to help.

Is he so ashamed of his own son that he’s buried any connection between them? Are the people who know him even aware that he has a son, or does he pretend that his son had never existed at all?

Or is there something else going on here, something that Wilson is still holding back?

“What about yours?”

It really shouldn’t, but the redirect catches him off guard. He mentally rewinds the last few seconds of conversation. “My dad?”

“Yeah. I don't know much about him.”

“Ohhhh,” Neal drags the sound out purposefully. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

“Well, there's a big, gaping hole before your 18th birthday.”

“Enjoy the mystery.”

“Oh, come on. You don't want to talk about him?”

Peter’s digging, like he always does, but this is one secret that should stay buried. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, curt.

“I don't know. Start small. What did he do for a living?”

“He was in the circus,” Neal says, straight-faced, and as he predicted, Peter just gives a little scoff.

“Uh-huh. Let me guess— the guy in the middle with the big top hat, right?”

Neal grins a little at the jab and adjusts the set of his own hat, but doesn’t bother to correct him.

After all, the conman, the ringleader, the acrobat—they’re all performers, at heart. Slightly different roles, slightly different costumes, but all drawing from the same place. Top hat, tailcoat, suits and silks and sequins… they’re useful props, but the showman’s best costume is always his self.

His dad—the man who gave him his bright laugh and sharp cheekbones, who gave him his yearning to _fly_ —taught him that.

“He died,” Neal admits. He’s not sure what makes him say it. “When I was nine.”

Immediately, Peter’s face softens. “Ah, Neal,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Neal clears his throat roughly. “It was a long time ago.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, and even though he can see the questions stacking up behind Peter’s eyes, he does have _some_ tact.

Neal, for all his skills and charm, apparently does not. Or maybe it’s just this case that’s wearing it away like cliffs off the sea.

It’s a strange case for them; Diana’s contacts, through her father and otherwise, are helpful (surely a man like Wilson must have contacts of his own?), but there’s only so much the rest of them can do until they find the thief. It isn’t until the gems come out on the fine velvet tray that Neal _really_ feels in his element.

(“You said _friend_ , not _alias_ ,” Peter hisses, and Neal insists, “I consider them my friends.” He does; they’re _him_ , but they’re also _not-him_. When you live in different skins long enough and often enough, you have to be able to differentiate the _this-me_ and the _that-me_ or soon there won’t be any _me_ left at all.)

The con is simple enough, but there’s a quiet joy in the craft. Sweat and blood and artisan’s pride. If you ask him, their pigeon-blood is just as much a work of art as the ‘authentic’ article.

Ironically enough it’s as the case is wrapping up, once a confession has been obtained and the thief delivered to the Burmese, that Neal starts to unravel.

They’re all in the conference room, just waiting on good news, when the topic comes up.

When he brings it up, really; there’s no one he came blame for this one but himself.

“When was the last time you saw your son?” He tries not to sound too judgmental, but he can hear the way the last word comes out too sharp.

Wilson reflects for a second before he answers. “Eight years ago.”

Chris is twenty years old, and barely that. Eight years is probably half of his life as he remembers it.

“I'm sure it must be pretty difficult with your position,” Peter prompts, though not without sympathy.

Wilson isn’t a man to whom brooding comes naturally, but he manages a fair pensiveness.

“My divorce was messy,” he says. “I tried to remain close with Chris, but he ended up resenting everything I stand for. And ultimately, he said he didn't need me.”

“A twelve-year-old doesn't know what he does or doesn't need.”

Peter shoots him a warning look, but Neal ignores it. Peter with his cookie-cutter family and his wife and dog and welcoming townhouse couldn’t possibly understand it.

Twelve years old— just a kid. Just a stupid kid.

“He didn't want to be my son. There was nothing I could do.”

The way he says it makes it sound so… _mundane_ , so _final_. Like he was just a bystander watching some terrible tragedy unfold. Like he wasn’t the adult in the situation.

Like it was all just inevitable.

Twelve! Even _Bruce_ wouldn’t—

“Yeah. Well, you're his father. If you didn’t even care enough to keep trying, maybe he was better off without you.”

“That’s _enough_ ,” Peter snaps and grabs Neal roughly by the arm. “Give us a minute.” He hauls Neal out of the conference room before Wilson can reply, past the curious gazes of the agents in the bullpen. He drags them back away from prying ears, and only when they reach the relative privacy of an empty hallway does he round on Neal.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses.

“Nothing,” Neal mutters, annoyed. Normally, he doesn’t really mind how physical Peter can be— he kind of appreciates it, actually, all the shoulder bumps and pats on the back— but today he’s in no mood to be hauled around like a sullen toddler. Even if it’s somewhat deserved. “I lost my temper. I’ll apologize to Wilson. Okay?”

“O— _Okay?_ ” Peter repeats, incredulous. “Not _okay_ , Neal, not okay! What were you thinking?”

Neal feels his temper flaring up again. “I was _thinking_ that if he actually cared, maybe he could have been there for his son before he got stuck on death row!”

Peter stares at him for a full minute, mouth open. The pause does little to soothe the flickering anger in his stomach; if anything, it kindles it that much higher.

Where the hell does Peter get off, scolding him like a naughty kid? He’s not Neal’s father either, no matter what this weird rebellion-authority dichotomy they have is. The only _fatherly_ thing about it is how Peter manages to put the _pater_ in _patronizing_.

They’re _partners,_ or they’re supposed to be, _equals_ , so why exactly does everyone think that means they’re entitled to put him in time-out every time he makes a mistake? Why, why do they all think they can just _bench_ him like he’s thirteen years old again? Like he can’t even be trusted to take care of himself? Like he’s a _liability?_

“Look,” Peter says finally, “clearly this thing with your father—”

“He is _not_ my father _,_ ” Neal says heatedly, unthinkingly. He doesn’t even really realize what he’s said until Peter tilts his head a little and says, “Who?”

“What?”

The patented Peter Burke X-ray Vision is turned up to eleven; with less than a foot of space between them, there’s nowhere for Neal to hide. He’s pinned under that gaze, that first hint of a dawning understanding. “You just said _he_ isn’t your father. Who is ‘he’?”

“I just meant this isn’t about my father,” Neal says quickly.

“That’s not what you said.”

“Well, it’s what I _meant._ ” Please, please, Peter, just drop it. For once in your life, just leave it alone.

Peter’s lips are a thin line as he studies Neal, looking for… something. A tell, maybe.

If he finds it or not, Neal doesn’t know, but his gaze twitches down and he puffs air between his lips like he always does when he’s frustrated.

“Fine,” Peter says. “Whatever else is going on with you, and your dad, or whatever— clearly, you don’t want to talk about it. Fine. Right now, I need you to get your head in the game. Whatever your feelings about Wilson’s parenting, our job is to help him get his son back safely. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yeah.” It’s an easy promise to make: they have their perp already, the have the confession; the hard work is done.

Except that clearly, by thinking it he’s jinxed it, because Diana pokes her head around the corner, face pinched. “Peter, the ambassador's aid just called. They want to see you.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow, it’s only when everything falls apart that it starts to make sense again.

 

* * *

 

No matter what kind of suit he wears, he just can’t resist the temptation to try and solve other people’s problems. Peter, unlike some others Neal could name, does not approve of the admittedly unorthodox methods that are sometimes required.

“You met with Wilson yesterday,” Peter says accusingly; and then, when Neal doesn’t deny it, warningly, “Neal, whatever he's asking you to do…”

He could deny it. But— legal or not, this is the _right_ thing to do. Surely Peter can see that. “He’s got nowhere else to turn.”

“Oh, God, Neal. Don't do it.”

“Look, Wilson's trying to make good with his son, and I can help him.”

Peter sighs. His demeanor is that of a man called to bail out his sixteen-year-old from lock-up at 2 a.m. on a Wednesday.

Neal just _knows_ that he’s in for another _there are right ways and wrong ways_ lectures, and it sends anger rising in his veins. For once, he is in the right.

“The system _failed_ him,” he says, trying to _make_ Peter understand. That was the big difference between Peter and B— Peter believed in the system with his whole heart. He’d never been small, alone, helpless, as the system churned up the shattered remains of his life and tore him away from the only home he had left. He’d never burned with the need for justice, for closure, and been left wanting.

But B knew; everything that he was, that he did, it was for the ones that the system had discarded. The child that Neal had been had vowed to do the same one day.

Why not today?

Peter is still talking. “You’re rationalizing, and you know it. Nothing gives him or you or anyone the right to go around the law.”

“It's his son,” Neal says, with heat. “That gives him the right.”

“I don't agree with that.”

“It's what a father _should_ do.”

“I’m guessing you still aren’t going to tell me what this thing is with fathers that’s messing with your head?” Peter asks sourly.

“Nope.” Neal pauses, gentles his voice. “If this were your son... Or my son... I know what you would do.”

It’s a low blow, emotional blackmail.

It’s the kind of thing he would have said to B, to get him out of his stubborn head, to put it into terms that he can deal with, to kickstart his stunted emotional intelligence, to get him to _understand_.

He just wants him to _understand_.

Peter, he takes it to the gut.

He turns away, his big shoulder squared as his mind churns through responses, rebuttals, ways to drag Neal away from this by the scruff of his neck. There are none that don’t end with Neal back in prison and Peter knows that and Neal _knows_ he knows that. Neal’s mind is made up and if Peter tries to force his hand, well— he knows what he’s willing to lose.

Peter meets his gaze, looking tired and angry and resigned in a way that only makes Neal feel guiltier. “One wrong move inside the Burmese consulate, and they will extradite you. You'll end up in a Kabaw prison.” Peter searches his eyes, brown to blue.“I can't protect you.”

“I'm not asking you to.”

(Of course Peter turns up anyways. Because he’s _Peter_.)

(With Peter, he’s never needed to ask.)

It’s almost embarrassing how completely Neal’s opinion of Wilson has taken a 360 degree turn since he realized exactly how far the man was willing to go for his son.

And now, watching him throw distance and propriety aside and embrace his son for the first time in eight years, Neal wonders, suddenly, if Chris really traveled halfway across the world because he wanted to leave his father behind… or because he wanted to know if his father would follow.

It’s something to consider— academically speaking, of course. Not that this case has any potential ramifications for his own issues. Clearly.

_Ugh._

That being said, it’s maybe not the _worst_ idea in the world for him to… talk to someone. And it’s not like Peter will leave it alone until he does, so.

“You asked me about my dad.” Neal is careful to keep his eyes on the tearful reunion. “He really did die. I didn’t lie about that.”

Peter’s voice is gentle. “I never thought you did.”

It’s a lie, but a kind one. There are too many of those.

“He didn’t just die,” Neal says, eyes still fixed straight ahead. “He was murdered. My mom too. I was— I saw it happen.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, but Peter doesn’t speak, which he’s grateful for. That’s its own can of trauma, but it’s not what he needs to say.

“I didn’t have any other family. The police took me away, they would’ve put me in the system, but… there was this guy. He was there when my parents died, and he sat with me afterwards. He offered to foster me.”

“Did he hurt you?” Peter asks quietly, and Neal suddenly remembers that Peter has seen his scars.

So Neal makes himself look his partner right in the eyes. “No,” he says firmly. “Never.”

“Or,” he amends at a thought, “not on purpose. He was a good man, and I think he cared about me, in his own way, but he wasn’t the most emotionally available. I was a pretty messed up kid, and I needed more than he could give.”

“You said he wasn’t your father,” Peter recalls, an undertone to his voice that Neal doesn’t really want to decipher right now.

“He wasn’t,” Neal says, then, “He’s not. I mean, legally, he was my guardian, but it wasn’t like he was going to adopt me or anything.”

“Why not?” It’s a provocative question, and Peter knows it. He knows they’re edging around something more complicated, more difficult to put into words.

Neal thinks carefully about his answer. “He wasn’t looking for a son,” he says slowly. “It was more like— he saw what happened to me, and he knew that he had the resources to help me, so he did. Because he knew it was the right thing to do. Not because of… me.”

“There’s more to taking care of a kid than just feeding him and giving him a bed.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Neal bites out. He takes a deep breath in. And out. “I know. But, Peter, you have to understand, I was so angry. I… I wanted to _hurt_ people. I wanted them to hurt like I was hurting. When he took me in, he probably saved my life. He helped me find a way to use the anger, to turn it into something good.

“But he couldn’t fix me, that bad part in me, the part that wanted to hurt people and, Peter, I did something, I did something terrible, and,” his throat closes up and he realizes, to his humiliation, that he’s blinking back tears.

“ _Neal_.” The command in Peter’s voice leaves no room for challenge. His hand comes up to rest at the back of Neal’s neck, gently but firmly guiding his view towards where Chris and Wilson and Rocker are still standing together. Rocker is wrapped firmly around one of Chris’ arms and Wilson has his hand wrapped protectively around his opposite shoulder so that they form a living chain, unbroken.

“You did _that_ ,” Peter says. “And maybe I don’t know everything that happened then, but I know you now, Neal, and you’re not bad. Sometimes you make me want to pull my hair out and lock you in a concrete box for the sake of my own sanity, but you’re not bad. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask El or June or any of the other people you’ve helped, and they’ll all tell you the same thing.”

Neal laughs shakily and Peter pretends not to notice while he discreetly wipes his eyes.

“Thank you, Peter,” he says sincerely. “That means a lot.”

“‘Course,” Peter mumbles, clearly embarrassed, and then he clears his throat roughly.

“So!” he says. “Sticking with the circus story, huh? I think you’d make a great clown.”

“I would, actually,” Neal says, unperturbed. “But the shoes always bothered me.”

“What, they don’t make size 42B in Italian hand-tooled leather?” Peter snipes, and Neal laughs, loud and carefree.

“Yeah, and it’s surprisingly hard to find a Devore with purple and orange polka dots.”

“Oh, really? You don’t say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be the first to admit, this one was basically a flat-out rewrite of ‘What Happens in Burma’, but, man, that dialogue… it was rough enough on canon!Neal, but for someone with Dick/Neal’s issues, can you say ‘suckerpunch’?  
> And for the record, yes, one of his big disguises is still the Clark Kent glasses— although no one’s quite meta(textual) enough to be able to make that joke.  
>   
> Next time:  
> The Team carries out a warrant. To put it bluntly, it’s a genuine nightmare.


	4. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Team carries out a warrant. To put it bluntly, it's a genuine nightmare.

The thing about warrants is that once you get them—once some judge with a robe and a gavel says, yes, now you have official permission to go violate someone’s privacy—you actually have to carry them out. And when it’s _official_ , you can’t just steal in at dead of night and rummage through the pertinent evidence; no, you have to go through _everything_ , even the stuff you know isn’t relevant, and you have to _follow procedure_ and fill out paperwork and stumble around dirty warehouses at 10 o’clock on a Saturday.

(Not that he hasn’t searched dirtier warehouses before, and even more exhaustively— but it feels somehow worse in the light of day.)

“So remind me again what we’re looking for here?” Neal asks, checking halfheartedly under a folding chair, as if someone might have taped forged Persian artifacts under the seat.

Peter shoots him a dirty look. “Anything that might indicate that the forged artworks could have been stored here. Oh, will you stop that? It’s just a little dirt. It’ll wash out.”

Neal hits him with a flat glare. “This is wool. It’s dry clean only.”

But Peter seems to have become miraculously deaf. _Fine_.

Neal pokes around a few more corners, still irritated. This case— he half-suspects that Peter chose it just to punish him for something. His skills are entirely unnecessary on this one; the forgeries that they’re chasing are so amateurish that they hadn’t even needed an expert—let alone one of his caliber—to spot the flaws. And the paper trail is clear enough, if tedious, that there’s no need for undercover work, or even direct contact with the suspect. Even _mortgage fraud_ is more interesting than this case, because at least there’s still a little mystery to finding the perpetrator!

But Peter had insisted that every case is equally important, so here he is on a Saturday morning, tiptoeing around rat droppings and forgotten yogurt cartons that must have been stewing for years.

The things he does.

“Hey, Peter?” Jones calls out from the other side of the warehouse. “I think I got something here.”

Peter immediately drops the empty chinese food container he’d been examining on the end of a pencil (for what, Neal couldn’t imagine— a shipping manifest hidden under scraps of moldy lo-mein?) and makes a beeline for Jones. Neal, lacking anything better to do, follows.

Diana beats them there and is crouching down to check around the bottom edge of Jones’ crate. Unlike the rest of this warehouse, it’s new and practically untouched; there’s a shipping label from a company that Neal doesn’t recognize, with a Middle Eastern-based corporate address. A logo that he can barely make out, some sort of stylized bird with a gash of black ink across its eyes. In its claws, a twist of thorns. Or is it barbed wire?

Definitely suspicious.

“Was it already opened?” asks Diana, zeroing in on the broken padlock hanging off the lid.

Again, strange— nothing else in the warehouse had been secured at all, and now this is just sitting open for them. It’s almost too easy. There’s something else, too… something that’s pricking at the edge of his awareness…

“Yeah,” Jones confirms. “I didn’t even touch it.”

“Open it,” Peter orders.

 _This is wrong_ , Neal thinks mutedly, _this is all wrong,_ but before he can say anything, Jones grasps the edge of the lid. He’s barely lifted it more than a few centimeters when it hits Neal— a sharp hiss and that smell, the scent of chemical carrion, unforgettable even after fifteen years.

“It’s gas!” he shouts, but it’s too late; Jones is backing away from the crate, which is seeping a thick, greenish haze, not quite solid enough to be called smoke.

“Everybody out!” shouts Peter, and they stumble towards the doors.

Diana hits them first and rebounds.

“Shit!” Jones yells, hauling at the handles to no avail. “We’re locked in!”

No way it’s a coincidence— someone planned this, set a trap and waited for someone (them?) to stumble in and spring it.

He reaches instinctively to his belt, but Neal Caffrey doesn’t carry a rebreather. Neither do the FBI, for that matter; they’re sitting ducks.

The first tendrils of gas tease at their ankles.

Neal fumbles with his tie, manages to loosen it enough to draw his collar up over his nose and mouth. “It’s fear toxin,” he spits out, using as little air as possible. “Need to stay calm. Cover your mouth and don’t breathe it in.” Makeshift masks won’t do much good, but if he can just get them away from the source before the hallucinations start to kick in…He tries to think if he saw any alternate exits coming in, but he can’t remember—

(— _sloppy, always case the environment when you’re in an unfamiliar location, you know better than this, Ro—)_

“No!” someone wails. Jones. “No, get away from me! Get away!”

He’s staring at nothing, arms up by his face, cringing away from some horror only he can see. A vein is bulging at his temple and sweat shines on his scalp.

“Get AWAY!” he howls, taking a swipe at thin air, then another, not seeming to notice that he’s completely failing to make contact with anything corporeal.

But Neal can’t spare the time to worry about Jones, because suddenly he has a much bigger problem.

Diana’s clawing at her belt, fumbling her pistol out of its holster with a carelessness that she would never allow in her right mind. Her gaze is wild but her hands are disturbingly steady.

“Diana,” Neal rasps. His heart is racing already, he can feel the pulse at the base of his throat, but he can’t tell how much is just adrenaline and how much is the gas affecting his nervous system. “Diana. Agent Berrigan. It’s not real, okay? Put down the gun. It’s not real.”

She shakes her head, but he can’t tell if it’s a rejection of his words or in response to some nightmare playing out in her mind.

“Charlie?” she whispers, and she sounds younger than he’s ever heard her.

He drops his makeshift mask, for all the good it was doing, raises his hands placatingly. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the way they tremble. “Charlie’s not here, Di. Listen to me, it’s just the gas. You need to put the gun down before someone gets hurt.” He glances behind him for help, and his vision distorts at the edges, like a funhouse mirror. “Peter, I need you here.”

But Peter’s gaze is glassy and horrified. “El,” he moans. “No, El. Stop it, don’t hurt her. Stop it!”

Neal grabs his arm, staggers a little but holds on when Peter tries to yank away. “Peter, you need to fight it!”

“ _Charlie!_ ” Diana screams, and pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening in the empty warehouse and it sends Neal reeling away from Peter. His heel hits something and he falls (the gas— he doesn’t _fall_ , not like that, it’s the gas in his lungs).

His vision is wavering as he tries to stand, to walk. He forces himself to focus on the concrete beneath his feet, the chilling dampness of sweat across his neck and shoulders, the weight of the gun in his hand, the

the gun

the

No— Diana. Diana has the gun. He’s not— the gas is affecting him. Messing with his head. Dredging up the terrors that he’s buried so deep under smiles and charm.

Another gunshot and he flinches violently.

_(what’s the matter, Freddy? Don’t you want to play?)_

Peter screams, an awful, gut-wrenching sound and Diana turns blindly in his direction, raising the gun again…

And then her hands are empty and she’s flinching back, clawing at her own arms as the disassembled pieces of the gun clatter to the concrete at his feet.

He blinks.

He doesn’t remember—

Peter is still screaming, hands buried in his hair, Diana’s arms are bleeding as she tears at her own skin, Jones is pressed back into a corner, rocking himself and moaning, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees—

—he sees—

_(the coin hangs in the air and he’s not sure which side he wants to come up but, no, he does, they always save the civilian first)_

His phone. His phone is ringing. He fumbles it out of his pocket and wastes a good thirty seconds staring uncomprehending at the screen before it occurs to him to press the button.

“Caffrey!” Hughes voice rings out, tinny and tinged with static. “Finally! No one’s answering their— is someone screaming?”

Everyone’s screaming. All of them. All of the people he failed. And above that, that awful scratchy laughter. “Stop it,” he whispers.

“Caffrey?” Neal would never have guessed that Hughes’ habitual bark could sound so concerned. “Neal, are you hurt? What’s going on? Where’s Peter?”

Peter. Peter needs help. Jones and Diana. He forces himself to focus.

“Trap,” he grits out from between his teeth. He’s afraid that if he unclenches his jaw, he’ll start screaming and he won’t be able to stop. “Hughes, it wassa… trap. Gas. Need— hazmat.”

“Alright, Caffrey, I need you to stay calm. Hazmat will be there soon. I need you to tell me if Peter and the others are okay. Can you do that?”

“I— ”

“ _Focus_ , Caffrey.”

He closes his eyes, presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets to try and block out the nightmares. It doesn’t help.

“Fear toxin,” he manages. “Lysergic acid based. Dispersal method: aerosol. T-time of exposure… unknown. Chances of survival—”

 _“Fifty-fifty,”_ rasps a voice at his ear, _“Just how I like it.”_

He can’t help it; his eyes shoot open.

“No,” he whispers, backing away from that grotesque, lopsided sneer. “No, you’re dead. You’re dead.”

Someone’s calling a name that he thinks he should recognize, but he can’t focus.

Two-Face stalks toward him, a baseball bat dragging on the concrete behind him. Flecks of blood stand stark against the varnished wood.

 _“But we never finished our game,”_ he grates, one half of his face twisting up in demented glee. _“You remember the rules, don’t you, Robin?”_

The scarred face of the coin grins at him.

_“First, we need the stakes, don’t we? What do you think, kid— second time’s the charm?”_

The gallows. Two nooses, twelve steps to the top. He remembers.

The hooded figures are somehow vague, almost indistinct, but doesn’t need to see them to know.

 _“Good old Double Jeopardy,”_ Two-Face crows. _“Time to make a choice, brat. Who dies first? Heads I win, tails you lose.”_

The gun is in his hand.

He doesn’t think just raises it and

fires

Dent smiles with both halves of his face as a thin line of red trickles from the single hole above his ruined left eye.

“ _Now, what_ would _the Bat say?_ ” he asks mockingly. “ _His little birdie, all grown up and a killer. I guess out of the two of us, I made the stronger,”_ he hefts the bat meaningfully, “ _impression_.”

“You’re DEAD!” Neal screams. “You’re dead, I KILLED YOU!”

Two-Face howls with glee. “ _I don’t know about you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but that sounds like a confession to me— guess there’s no need for a trial after all!_ ”

“No!” Neal realizes what’s going to happen a second before it does, but even as he lunges forward, Two-Face presses a button and the trapdoor

d

r

o

p

s

_(the sound of bone and flesh, snapping, breaking, bone and)_

_(falling, still falling f a l l i n g)_

_(spray of hot blood on his face, against his )_

_(lips, taste of salt and iron)_

_(falling and he can’t)_

_(stop them stop them)_

_(s t o p them make it stop)_

_(STOP)_

He sees them all there, limp, broken dolls, bent in all the wrong directions; his mother and father, still in the last costumes they’d ever worn; Mozzie, his glasses cracked and speckled with red; June, her elegant neck twisted all the way around, dark eyes staring emptily; Jones and Diana, both nearly unrecognizable; Peter, almost untouched but for the blood thick in his hair and El’s still, twisted form draped carelessly across his caved-in chest; a dark-haired boy whose features are blood-streaked and unfamiliar in red and green.

And, a little way apart, a mountain of unmoving black fabric.

_No no no no no no_

He scrambles over, stumbling on the hem of his cape, bare knees scraping bloody on the concrete.

_(cape? something not right, he can’t—)_

“No,” he says, hauling at an armored arm. “No, no, no _please,_ please I’m sorry, I’m _sorry!_ ”

He finds the leverage and the mountain shifts, crumbles. He turns him onto his back, so that the emblem stares blindly upward.

It’s the old suit, black on gray, the cowl that comes down to a point at the tip of his nose and he eases it off, hoping, praying that maybe there’s been a mistake, a trick, maybe it’s not—

His face is just as he remembers it, the same lines, the same too-blue eyes, the same scar on his chin that he tells everyone he got playing quoits _(and smiles and nobody ever questions that faultless white smile, the most perfect disguise he’ll ever wear)_. There’s a single perfect hole in his forehead and the red runs down, pooling in his left eye, tracing his strong cheekbones, curving his mouth into a one-sided grimace.

He wants to touch him but he can’t, he can’t, _he did this_ and his hands are smeared with red, red like the roses they told him to drop on the coffins, red like the glare of city lights as a murderer begs on his knees.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, pleads. “I didn’t mean it, please, I didn’t mean it!”

That distorted, red-traced mouth opens, moves, even as the rest of the face remains completely corpse-slack.

 _“Not Good Enough_ ,” it says in Dent’s voice, that awful sick rasp twisting against something deeper, gravel and concrete.

Its hand rises like a marionette with invisible strings, held up awkwardly, unnaturally, at the joints; it reaches for him and he fumbles backwards, but there are more hands, clawing, tearing at his skin and he struggles but he can’t escape he can’t escape and they drag him down into the ground and dirt rains down in his eyes in his mouth until it’s all he can see all he can smell and he chokes on his own grave and then there’s just _—_

 _—_ darkness.

 

* * *

 

If someone asked him to make a list of people he would expect to find sitting at his hospital bed, Reese Hughes would not be among them.

Even in a hard, uncomfortable hospital chair, with thin reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, Hughes is a predominating figure as he glares down at a sheaf of what are no doubt very important papers. At some point he’d loosened his tie just enough to open the very top button, but this slight relaxation of formality doesn’t make him look any less formidable. If anything, it reminds Neal of a brawler rolling up his sleeves before he enters the fray.

It takes only a few moments for those sharp lion-eyes to notice that he’s awake.

“Caffrey,” he says, setting the papers to the side and folding away the reading glasses. “How are you feeling?”

Now that they’re gone, Neal almost wishes they’d stayed; it’s an uncomfortable sensation to be the unrestricted focus of that penetrating gaze. He lets his own gaze skitter away, unable to hold for long.

“I’m— okay,” he lies. Hughes is FBI, but he’s not Peter. This is not a place to admit weakness. Never mind the nasal cannula and the IVs pinching at the inside of his arm. “Head hurts a little. What happened?”

Hughes leans forward, not quite leaning on the bed, but enough that his elbows brush the loose folds of the sheet. “You don’t remember?”

He… almost remembers. It’s right there, he knows it, smudges of voices and memory and thick dark fear, but he can’t quite pull back, get perspective to see the whole picture.

“Not really,” he says. “We were… at a warehouse?”

Hughes grunts an affirmation. “You were carrying out a warrant for the Zycker case. There was some sort of trap, a chemical attack. Your team was exposed.”

“Fear toxin,” he recalls. The box, the doors locking behind them, the others falling prey to the gas—

He jerks upright so fast that if it weren’t for Hughes’ quick reflexes, he probably would have spilled straight onto the floor. As it its, he nearly garrotes himself with the nasal cannula. His chest, too, flares with pain, like someone stitched his lungs to the inside of his ribs. The thought sends a shiver up his spine but he ignores it.

“Diana,” he gasps. “Jones. _Peter_. Where— Did they—”

“ _Easy_ ,” Hughes barks, struggling to hold him still as he tries to get his uncooperative limbs in some semblance of order. “Calm down, Caffrey, that’s an order! Burke’s fine. So are Jones and Berrigan. They’re alright.”

Slowly, Neal’s struggles weaken. “They’re okay?” he confirms uncertainly. “They’re not…”

“They’re fine,” Hughes repeats. “A couple of stitches for Berrigan, and they want to keep Jones under observation for a couple days since he was closest to the device, but they’ll be okay.”

“And Peter?” It’s hard to quash the anxious paranoia even when he knows that it’s just a lingering remnant of the gas.

Hughes rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “Nurses already caught him trying to sneak out twice. Only way we could get him to stay in bed was to promise I’d sit up here with you until you woke up. Speaking of which, I should probably let him know you’re awake before Elizabeth has to physically sit on him.”

“Yeah, sure,” Neal says distractedly as other details start to come back to him. The gallows, gunfire—

He doesn’t know what is on his face, but it stops Hughes in his tracks. “Caffrey,” he says carefully. “Neal?”

That pries loose another memory, and a worrying one.

“You were on the phone,” Neal recalls, fixing on that austere, senatorial face. “You called, and I… I remember…”

He’d… reported. Like he was a kid again, and the Boss was demanding a sit-rep.

_Fear toxin. Lysergic acid based. Dispersal method: aerosol. Time of exposure: unknown. Chances of survival—_

Criminal informants don’t report like that. _FBI agents_ don’t report like that. And the details—that he’d recognized fear toxin, that he knew about its chemical composition—had Hughes noticed?

And moreover, what about after? He didn’t remember hanging up the phone. How much had Hughes heard? Or—had it been like when Peter was kidnapped, had he put the phone on speaker, had everyone heard him screaming—

_(You’re DEAD! You’re dead, I KILLED YOU!)_

He doesn’t notice his breathing speeding up but suddenly his vision is swimming and Hughes is hauling him up with surprising strength given his age and pressing against his back, saying, “Breathe, Caffrey. With me— _In_ -two-three-four, _out_ -two-three-four-five-six-seven, _in_ -two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight, _out_ -two-three-four…”

He keeps counting, hand pressing firmly between Neal’s shoulder blades, until Neal’s breath has smoothed into something less ragged, more controlled.

As he slowly rises back to awareness, he realizes that he’s just had a panic attack all over _Reese Hughes_. Embarrassment bubbles up like burst champagne and he extricates himself from Hughes’ still-hovering hold as quickly and politely as possible (and doesn’t think about how comforting it felt).

“I’m fine, must be leftover from the gas,” he says, forcing a chuckle. “You should call Peter, I’ll be fine.”

Hughes lets him putter on with his weak excuses until he runs out of steam. Then, in the new silence, he leans forward, his cellphone tucked between his long, thin fingers.

There are callouses there, yes, from years in the field, but they’re outnumbered by wrinkles and the sharp lines of tendons that stretch out under the delicate skin. He’s an old man, Neal realizes, not for the first time.

“Caffrey,” Hughes says quietly, dipping his head so that Neal can’t avoid his eye, “You did good.”

It’s so unexpected, it takes him a moment to process what he’s heard. “Sir?” he questions uncertainly.

Hughes eyes are unusually pale, like a reflection off still water, and uncharacteristically gentle.

“You did good,” he repeats. “You stayed calm, you communicated vital information, you did everything that we try to train agents to do in a situation like this. Because of you, hazmat were able to obtain an antidote and administer it as soon as they arrived on the scene. If it had taken even a few minutes longer, you all could have suffered permanent damage. Because of you, Caffrey, all of my people will walk away from this with their lives and their sanity. So, Neal—” and this time Neal smiles a little to hear his first name in Reese’s gravelly voice, “you did good. And thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , sir,” Neal tells him, and he means it. There’s a warmth under his ribs and it chases away a few clinging tendrils of fear. “But really, you should call Peter before he pulls a Steve McQueen. Trust me, it’s the first few hours that make or break an escape attempt— best to head it off now.”

Hughes’ lips quirk. “Well,” he says dryly, “I guess I’ll have to trust our resident expert.” He pats Neal’s shoulder once, briskly, before he departs.

When the soft, rhythmic rapping of his footstep has faded into the ambient noise of the hospital, Neal allows himself a deep, settling breath. Hughes— he’s good people. All of them are.

He settles back against the pillows, tugging at the over-starched hospital bedding until it doesn’t feel quite so much like four-point restraints (he would know), but he doesn’t bother to sleep.

A nurse comes in, checks his vitals, asks if he has any questions. He doesn’t; the man write something on his chart, smiles at him, tells him to press the call button if he needs anything, and leaves him to ‘rest’. He doesn’t.

He waits.

Sure enough, it’s not even an hour later that he hears muffled voices outside the door of his room.

 _“You should be resting_ , _mister.”_

_“I’m fine, hun. The doctor said—”_

_“The doctor_ said _that you shouldn’t strain yourself!”_

_“Oh, come on, honey, it’s just down the hallway, and besides, we’re this far already.”_

_“He’s probably asleep— like_ you _should be.”_

_“I’m just going to peek in, El.”_

“You guys don’t have to hide out in the hallway,” Neal says at a normal volume. The whispers abruptly cut off, and a second later, Peter’s head pokes around the doorframe.

“Neal?” he says, still faintly hushed. “Hey, you’re awake.”

“As I’m sure Hughes already told you,” Neal says, amused. Peter in a flimsy polka-dot hospital gown and dark blue robe, with a bandage stretched crookedly across his chin and an impressively fluffy case of bedhead, is a truly inspiring sight. He wishes he had a sketchbook— but alas. “Nice hair.”

Peter looks confused, hand shooting to his hair, and from the hallway there is a half-stifled giggle.

“Hey, El,” Neal calls a little louder, and Elizabeth appears behind her husband, grinning.

“Oh, Neal, it’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” he says. “How about you?”

His question is mostly directed at Peter, but he can’t help but notice that behind her smile and neat blouse, El looks unusually strained. He wonders how soon they let her in to see Peter, whether the antidote had fully taken hold. If not, what she might have had to see, or hear, as the man she loved most in the world screamed his way through a world of nightmares.

“Good as new,” Peter says, moving further into the room to drop into the chair that Hughes had abandoned earlier. “Everyone’s telling me we got the antidote just in time, and I hear we have you to thank for that.”

Neal shrugs that off. “This wasn’t an accident,” he says darkly. “That crate was set to gas anyone who opened it, and it wasn’t a coincidence that the doors locked behind us. It was a perfect trap.”

“I know.” Peter’s face is grave, and when El puts a hand on his shoulder, he covers it with one of his own. “The question is, was the trap meant for us or for someone else?”

Neal thinks of the smell of blood and gunpowder and a dead half-face laughing in his ear. “I wouldn’t wish _that_ on my worst enemy.”

El’s hand visibly convulses on Peter’s shoulder and Neal immediately feels guilty. He decides to change the subject.

“I really am okay,” he says. You didn’t have to send Hughes up to babysit.”

To his surprise, Peter shakes his head, his lips curving up a bit at the edges. “That was all Reese’s idea. Don’t think he’d ever say it, but he was pretty worried. You gave him a real scare there when he lost you.”

“Lost me?” Neal repeats dumbly.

“On the phone,” Peter clarifies. “Guess you dropped yours. Which reminds me, you’re going to need a new phone.”

“Considering I lost it in the line of duty,” Neal says pointedly, “I really think the FBI should reimburse me for that.”

“We’ll see,” Peter says, which isn’t an answer.

Neal grins at him, quick, before a lingering anxiety rises again. “Um, he— Hughes didn’t happen to mention _when_ the phone cut out, did he?”

Peter and El sharing a meaningful look, and then El says brightly, “I think I’m going to run down and grab myself a coffee. Is there anything you need, Neal?”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Neal says, not sure what to make of such an obvious gambit, and El smiles at him, presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head, and bustles out of the room.

“What was that about?” Neal asks when he’s sure she’s out of earshot. “We planning your great escape now? Because if you need some papers, I have no problem being the Blythe to your Hilts.”

Peter somehow manages to ignore his staggering wit. “Hughes says you recognized the gas— that’s how they knew what antidote to give us.”

“...Yes,” Neal admits reluctantly, paranoia back full-force. He knew he wasn’t nearly lucky enough to get away without _someone_ noticing.

But Peter doesn’t seem suspicious. “So... You’ve seen something like this before.”

“Sort of like it, yeah,” Neal says cautiously.

“I haven’t.” Peter is staring down at the scratchy hospital bedding as though it’s suddenly fascinating. “Not even close. I ever tell you about Quantico?”

“Don’t think so,” Neal says, both curious and a little concerned about where this line of thought might be leading. In fact, Peter _has_ mentioned Quantico a few times, at least obliquely. Sometimes he’ll reference some case that everyone (except, of course, the non-agent criminal consultant) studied there, or he’ll reach out to an old Quantico buddy for a favor on a case. Neal knows that Peter was still fairly young when he started at the FBI academy, that he’d put his math degree to good use and specialized in financial crimes, that he’d been, if not top of his class, then close. He can’t imagine how any of that relates to being drugged out of your mind with a hallucinogenic fear toxin.

“When I was at Quantico…” Peter fusses with the edge of the sheet, smoothing down some imperceptible crease. “You never know where you’ll end up being assigned. Everyone has their top choice, of course they do, but— Things happen, you end up going in different directions. And you never know where a case might lead. The FBI wants all of its agents to be prepared for anything. So they teach you about field protocol and major cases and financial crimes and drug crimes— just a little bit of everything, right?”

“Right,” Neal says, although he suspects that the FBI’s idea of _everything_ had probably been a little different from his own mentor’s. He highly doubts that Peter studied forensic pathology or pharmaceutical chemistry or palynology or auditory cognition. And that’s not even getting into foreign languages or criminal psychoses.

But for a civilian—so to speak—the FBI academy probably seems pretty comprehensive.

“And no matter what you specialize in,” Peter says, tone growing flatter and flatter with each word, “they teach you about the serial killers. About cartel killings. About meta terrorism. And they show you pictures.” There’s something haunted in Peter’s expression, something that makes Neal ache. Peter shouldn’t have that expression. Not Peter, who works White Collar and cares about every victim, who is so awkward but earnest with small children and helpless with crying women. Not Peter, who is so _good_.

“I know you don’t like violence,” Peter continues, oblivious to his train of thought. “You can’t understand how something like that stays with you. You just can’t. Hell, I’m _glad_ you can’t.”

Oh.

Ironic, that Peter sees the same innocence in him that he sees in Peter.

“And,” Peter continues haltingly, “you know—they tell you—that some of the monsters who did those things— they were never caught. They’re still out there, free… free to do it again.”

It’s not surprising that Peter looks at Neal Caffrey, epitome of a nonviolent criminal, and sees someone innocent to the worst savageries of the world.

But Peter, too, is very _sheltered_ in some ways; he’s seen guilty men go free because of insufficient evidence or shoddy police work or bribes— but he’s never seen a known killer go free _(again and again and again)_ because the system simply couldn’t hold them.

Is it worse, Neal wonders, not knowing the face of the shadow that stalks you, not knowing if it’s the neighbor who borrows your tools or the young man who smiles at you in the supermarket…

…or is it worse knowing it _too_ well, seeing it mocking you as some under-paid news anchor reports that he’s escaped custody yet again?

He’s only ever really known the latter; even when it had been his parents, before he’d gotten the name, he’d had a face to blame.

“That’s what I saw.” Peter says in an undertone, dragging him back from his dark thoughts. “All those pictures, the blood and the— but it was El.”

Again, _oh_.

He remembers hearing Peter scream for El, but it hadn’t really clicked until just now.

Peter is a man who loves with all his heart, fiercely, fervently; how could his greatest fear ever be anything but that same love twisted in on itself, perverted?

“I couldn’t protect her. All those horrible things— she was screaming and _begging me—_ It was so _real_ , Neal. How could it feel so real?”

“It was the gas, Peter,” Neal says gently. “That’s what it does. It makes you see things. Bad things. Everything that you’re afraid of. And you can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. That’s why it’s so dangerous.”

Peter finally breaks from his intense investigation of the bedsheets. There’s something very vulnerable about his expression, where normally he hides vulnerability away behind a stiff upper lip and a _‘Cowboy up, Caffrey’_.

“What did you see, Neal? What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing.” Peter’s face closes off and he goes to pull back, but Neal catches his arm. “No, Peter, I mean it. I saw _nothing_. I was… alone. Everyone I cared about, they were all gone, and it was my fault.” He shrugs, tried to make it careless and knows that he fails. “Guess that’s my worst fear. Losing... people. Everyone.”

He’s still holding Peter’s arm, so he lets go, leans back against the pillows and pretends that he doesn’t see the sympathy in Peter’s eyes.

“Well,” Peter says, a little awkwardly, but with a crooked half-smile that eases its way, “I don’t think you’ll feel like you’re alone anytime soon, if the rest of the team has anything to do with it. Last I heard, they were starting up a schedule for whose turn it is to visit you. Carol’s even saying she’s going to be bringing you some of her famous brownies.” He waggles his eyebrows conspiratorially and Neal laughs.

“Well, if there are brownies...” and Peter laughs with him.

Soon enough, El returns and finds them heckling each other like it’s just another weekend at the Burke’s. She chivvies Peter off _to rest, in your own bed!_ with poorly-hidden indulgence in her eyes.

Alone again, Neal nestles into the inadequate bedding and tries not to think about how, once, he’d been able to tell Peter with full honesty that he’d never lied to him.

Not anymore.

When the nurse catches him tossing and turning, she smiles sympathetically and blames the gas. Eventually—finally—he sleeps.

He dreams of blood and gunpowder and a two-faced coin, falling endlessly into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reese Hughes. Yet another marshmallow covered in a thin layer of grouch and rules.  
> A few more blanks are beginning to be filled in! Also, I’m still struggling to make the timeline at least somewhat coherent, so some minor details of years/dates/ages might change. I am working on a timeline to clarify things a little bit, and if anyone’s interested, I’ll post it once we get a little further in to some of the more plotty chapters.  
> Last but not least, there will unfortunately not be a new chapter next week, but we’ll be back the week after. So hopefully you guys will stick around.
> 
> Next time:  
> You don’t just _stop_ being a hero. Sooner or later, it’s going to come crashing down.  
> Plus, a guest appearance.


	5. Collision Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t just _stop_ being a hero. Sooner or later, it’s going to come crashing down.

For an adult male of Neal’s age and metabolism, it will take approximately a week and a half for the last traces of toxin to clear his system.

He can’t tell if it’s those lingering traces or his own paranoia that has him dreading so fiercely his return to the office.

Luckily, it goes well; a few agents pat him on the back, a few more ask him how he’s feeling or tell him he did a good job, and Carol does indeed bring him some of her famed brownies. Even Diana, her forearms still swathed in bandages, doesn’t refuse when Neal magnanimously offers to share.

He _is_ surprised when they’re all cleared to return to the office and the first thing Peter hands him is a file that very definitely is _not_ the Zycker case. He can guess immediately what’s happening—too close to the case, traumatic ordeal, possibly still targets—but he can’t comprehend that Peter— _Peter_ , a man more stubborn than the Col de Turini!—would ever just accept it.

When he asks, Peter looks sour.

“Bancroft’s orders,” he says, not quite resentfully. “When he heard about the gas, he brought in an outside team. _Experts_. From Gotham.”

And then, while Neal’s trying not to grimace (he really doesn’t need this right now, of all times), Peter gripes, “Experts in _what_ , I don’t know. Seems like they can’t keep those psychos locked up more than a few weeks. Some _experts_.”

Neal drops the subject, suddenly very grateful for a bit of distance from a case that, it seems, can only bring him more headaches.

Otherwise, it’s more or less back to business as usual.

(Neal wakes from screaming night terrors two nightsout of three, and from their haggard looks, neither Jones nor Diana nor Peter is much better. That bit, they don’t talk about.)

They take new cases, close some old ones and, on the side, spend fruitless evenings talking in circles about different ways to track down Vincent Adler, or at the very least whatever it is that he’s seeking so desperately that he would kill for it.

Adler… He’d told Peter that Adler is the man who made him who he is today, and while an outside observer might call it a bit of an exaggeration, Neal still doesn’t think it was a lie.

There have been many men (and women) who’ve helped to make many hims, but the one that Peter understands best _(Neal Caffrey, criminal)_ was not born until the day he’d met Vincent Adler.

The Adler job had not been his first crime—by any metric—but it was the first time he had really _felt_ like a criminal. Before, there had always been some justification; he’d been careful to only hit (other) criminals, drug dealers and thieves whose stashes of cash would mysteriously disappear right before the local police received an anonymous tip. Like a modern day Robin Hood.

(Who, incidentally, in the original tales was often shown _protecting_ the poor and abused, but rarely actually _sharing_ his spoils. The monetarily generous Robin Hood of popular imagination, as Mozzie often likes to point out, was a much later invention.)

Likewise, forgery had seemed fairly harmless in the long run; fake ID’s were a necessity for survival anyway, and fudging the birthdate for a couple of 18-years-olds who wanted to hit a bar hadn’t felt like it was really so bad either— after all, who was he to talk about age? And the bonds— well, he knew better than most 18- (or according to his then-shiny-new ID, 22-) year-olds exactly how major corporations like that worked, and the kind of budgets that they ran on. A few phony bonds would hardly even register on their profit margins, and with the quality of his forgeries, no one would ever blame the poor teller unlucky enough to cash them for him. No harm, no foul. So to speak.

In fact, if you really thought about it, he’d actually helped them, to some degree. He’d exposed security weaknesses that a more unscrupulous criminal might have exploited on a far greater scale. He’d made, what, six copies of the Atlantic Partners bonds? What was thirty, or even forty thousand dollars to a man like Stuart Gless? Especially when Neal knew for a fact that Gless had employed a security consultant whose annual salary was at least three times that amount and yet who had failed to turn up even half the vulnerabilities that Neal had exposed?

(He’s never tried that argument on Peter— he doesn’t need to see the look that _that_ one will get him.)

But with Adler… For the first time, he’d walked into an (as far as he’d known at the time) innocent man’s life with the intention of deceiving and defrauding him. It doesn’t _matter_ what he’d found out later, what Adler had done while he knew him or after. It doesn’t even matter that Kate’s blood is on Adler’s hands, because in the end it isn’t about Adler’s crimes or Adler’s decisions or Adler’s lies. It’s about his, Neal’s, and the path they set him on. A path that… swerved.

Falling into crime had been so _easy_ — Intentionally or not, the man who had trained him to catch brilliant criminals had given him all the skills he needed to _be_ a brilliant criminal. For all that the Bat always had tomorrow’s tech yesterday, at heart he’d always been rather old-fashioned. Chemical analyses were all well and good, but if you couldn’t identify a forged ID at a glance in the field, then you were already behind the curve. Making your own had just been the next logical step. Neal had cut his safe-cracking teeth on the likes of the Riddler and the Penguin, where non-industry-standard was the rule and booby-traps a given; after that, what chance did the rich shmucks of the world stand?

He’s still not sure how much of it he regrets; he regrets lying to Kate, obviously, and he regrets the way she’d died, but the rest of it… he’s still proud of most of his heists, of the skill and the ingenuity, and while prison wasn’t exactly enjoyable, if that was the price to end up here, with Jones and Peter and Diana and Hughes and the rest of the team and the box of brownies on his desk and all it represents, then it was a price worth paying.

He thinks—he knows—that when they do find Adler, it won’t be another Fowler situation. At some point that he hadn’t noticed, the grief he feels for Kate has moved from something skinned and raw to something scabbed over— still painful, still liable to crack and bleed if he worries at it too much, but healing.

 

* * *

 

When he was very young, before his parents let him so much as touch the trapeze, they sat him down and taught him the three rules that would, they hoped, keep him alive.

It hadn’t saved them, in the end, but every time he finds himself on the edge of a drop, he always comes back to those three rules.

The thing is, it’s not just Gotham; not just Metropolis, or Central, or Star City or any of the other cities that have been claimed by a member of the Justice League.

It’s Denver. It’s Osaka. It’s middle-of-nowhere Nevada. It’s wherever bad people think they can get away with bad things.

Today, it’s Manhattan.

Not investigating the gas attack doesn’t mean they’re not still involved; they’re still witnesses—victims, by the FBI’s reckoning—and that means there are interviews and follow-ups and double-checking details and questions that are supposed to sound like double-checking details that are really checking if they’re lying. Well, if _he’s_ lying. He’s noticed that the others have gotten considerably fewer of those.

Really, not handling the investigation themselves doesn’t provide the distance Neal was hoping for, it just means they have to watch impotently as the _experts_ from Gotham bungle it.

He’s never really stopped to think about what would qualify an FBI expert on somewhere like Gotham, for all that he’d encountered a fair few in the old days. The ones here— if he’s being generous, then he’ll assume that they’re _not_ representative of their specialized training.

Compared to the team that he’s used to working with, they’re painfully close-minded; their _expertise_ limits their thinking. They know that they were called in because of their knowledge of Gotham and its incomparably psychopathic criminal coterie, and so they assume that that knowledge is what is required. They’re blinkered by their assumptions that since it was fear gas, that _must_ mean Scarecrow is the mastermind. As if, after almost a decade on the streets, those compounds aren’t available on the black market for the right price.

He doesn’t think Scarecrow has anything to do with it— it’s a feeling that he can’t quite explain, but he’s certain of it. It’s painful to watch them blunder in and not be able to point out their mistakes.

The preliminary interviews, they’d done while everyone was still in the hospital. Some agent that Neal knows by face but not by name, who’d been reassuringly thorough and courteously understanding when the traces of gas in his system had him jumping at shadows and memories.

When the Gotham team came in, they’d been handed those interviews, the crime scene analyses, the case notes from when they’d believed that it was an open-and-shut forgery case. The _experts_ had been handed all that, and what had they done? They’d taken all that information, all those potential leads, and picked out the parts that supported their theory and discarded the rest. A perfectly infuriating exercise in confirmation bias.

When they’d first asked him to come in for follow up interviews, the paranoia had crested again, whispering, that someone had recognized him. Had connected a boy with black hair and a mask to a man with too much knowledge about a Gotham-derived substance like fear toxin.

He walks in with his nervousness carefully concealed under his usual charm, and walks out with his frustration right at the surface.

He can’t decide if his emotions are influencing his opinions or if he’s notorious enough that they’d dumped him on the greenhorn as some kind of hazing, but he’s almost offended by how sloppy the investigation is. The agent assigned to him fluctuates between doubting every detail he provides and ignoring everything that doesn’t contribute to their working theory.

It’s after one such interview that Peter catches him throwing his rubber-band ball against the file room wall with, perhaps, slightly more force than is strictly warranted, and drags him out for lunch at some pub with acceptable fish and chips and a gratifyingly decent microbrew selection.

It’s maybe not the restaurant he would have chosen for himself, but it’s a reasonable compromise between their respective tastes.

Peter seems similarly on edge, frustrated with the lack of progress and the _experts’_ blinkered view, but he doesn’t seem keen to talk about it, picking at his shepherd’s pie and scowling at whatever sport is playing on the TV behind the bar.

Neal doesn’t press him; it hasn’t escaped his notice that Peter still doesn’t much like even talking about the gas. That conversation at the hospital— it lanced the wound, but whether it heals or festers from there, Peter clearly believes that unearthing it again will only aggravate it.

On the walk back to the office, they don’t talk much, enjoying the uncharacteristically warm early November afternoon. It’s pleasant, in a quiet kind of way. Which is probably why he’s so unprepared for what happens next.

It starts with a low buzz, like the prickling hum of the third rail.

He doesn’t even notice it at first, still distracted thinking about this latest interview, wondering if he could, perhaps, give the Gotham team a friendly little… _nudge_ in the right direction, or if that’s just tempting fate. Not that he hasn’t done riskier things on less consideration, but he’s trying to curb those impulses.

They’re stopped at the corner, waiting on the light, when Neal notices the growing, prickling sense of _wrongness_.

The light changes, but Neal puts a hand on Peter’s arm to stop him before he can cross. “Do you hear something?” he asks.

Peter might’ve opened his mouth to say something, but it’s at that moment that the world explodes.

 

* * *

 

In that first moment, when you leap out into the air, you have less than a second before gravity realizes what you’re doing.

In that second, you’re weightless. In that second, you can fly.

And then gravity catches up.

He blinks, and dust and grit clings to his eyelashes. The sun— Where there should be sun there’s a haze of smoke and dust, gray-tinged and smothering. Somewhere in the distance, people are screaming.

He’s lying on his back. He can feel little pieces of gravel and concrete and who knows what else digging into the back of his once-spotless jacket.

And to think, he thinks giddily, he’d been so pleased earlier that it was still warm enough to go without an overcoat.

And then he coughs and the pain hits him full-force.

He groans.

He brings his hand up, wincing as he brushes over scrapes and bruises and digs into tender spots. Definitely going to feel that tomorrow. No broken ribs, though, from the feel of it.

Something strong latches onto his wrist and he almost punches Peter in the face before he recognizes him.

His eyes are wide and dust coats his hair. It makes Neal want to laugh, seeing him gray before his time. He does laugh, a little, then regrets it.

“Neal!”

Oh, right— Peter’s calling his name, patting him down clumsily for injuries.One big hand slips behind to cradle his head while he checks for a neck injury.

Neal bats his hands away. “I’m _fine_ , it’s just bruises. Help me up?”

Peter looks dubious and opens his mouth to object, but Neal doesn’t really need his help that much after all. He’s fought through worse injuries.

He makes it to his feet with only a slight waver, and though Peter still looks worried, he contents himself with hovering close enough to catch Neal if he should fall.

“You alright?” Neal asks, giving him a once over of his own. From a vertical perspective, he can see that Peter looks equally worse for the wear, the suit that had probably survived 15 years in service to the FBI now tattered and liberally coated with thick gray dust.

“Fine,” Peter says shortly, but he’s clutching high at his ribs in a way that makes Neal think he might actually have been the one to come out of this better off. “The blast—”

Right.

Through the thick cloud of ash and grime, Neal can barely make out the shape of the cars on the street. A few yards ahead of them, a young woman and a little girl are huddled against a fire-hydrant, glassy-eyed and dust-streaked but not, as far as Neal can tell, seriously injured.

A few more stragglers stumble away down a side-street, seemingly with little more direction than away from the screaming. Neal doesn’t blame them, even if he doesn’t share their instincts.

At first, he can’t figure where the blast could have come from; there’s dust everywhere and scattered debris, but no _wreckage_ — no sense of where the ragged chunks of metal and concrete might have _come_ from.

It isn’t until a shadow passes over their heads that he thinks to look up.

Thirty feet above their heads, a hole gapes in the side of the building directly across from them like some kind of urban dragon’s maw with ashy breath and jagged brick teeth. The smoke is so concentrated around the blast-site that (especially from their angle and distance), it’s nearly impossible to make out details. But—and his stomach lurches—it’s clear enough that the building itself is residential. Apartments. Some of the screaming, it’s coming from up there. There’s probably people trapped inside.

He’s about to say as much to Peter when _something_ flies over their heads again— _towards_ the hole. Something large.

Human-sized.

That just leaped the height of a small building.

“Did you see tha—” he starts to ask, turning towards Peter, but he never gets to finish.

All in an instant, the tenor of screams changes. A different kind of scream; metal, rubber on asphalt.

The truck comes out of the smoke sideways; the driver must have lost control when he hit the dust, because the semi is skidding inexorably, shooting off shards of metal and rubber as sides of the trailer shred against the asphalt. The cabin is somehow still upright, and Neal gets the briefest glance of the driver’s horrified face through the ash-smeared glass.

In that moment, everything is as clear as if he’s looking down from the top of a drop: he sees the truck, sliding; he sees the wall of the apartment building, already weakened; he sees the two figures directly underneath, the woman and her little girl with the dust-tipped pigtails.

_(His family had three rules for staying alive on the trapeze.)_

If he does nothing, they will die.

_(Rule #1. Pick a point; pick the point in space you’re headed for and never look away for even a second)_

When you’re in the air, you have to be able to judge speeds, distances in less than a second; he knows he can make it to them. Knows that they won’t make it far. But. It could be enough.

He picks his point.

He leaps.

He hears Peter scream after him as he _runs,_ but the words twist in the air, unable to reach him. They hang there, still unheard, as he pushes his muscles for that last speck of speed, that last nanometer of distance.

In the time since he started moving, the mother has just started to react. She’s managed to push most of the way to her feet, dragging her daughter up by her upper arms with that legendary maternal adrenaline.

They can’t possibly make it, though; the truck is bearing down on them, seconds away from turning them into two more broken dolls and a casualty count on the 7:00 news. The girl’s lips stretch open in a scream that no one will ever hear.

He hits them full speed, tackling the girl into her mother and using momentum more than body strength to throw them back those few precious feet. They hit the corner of the doorway hard enough that Neal’s teeth rattle in his skull and he spares a second to worry about the fragile bird-bones crushed between two sturdier adult bodies, but then the truck hits the side of the building and all thought is shaken right out of his head.

It’s like someone managed to focus an earthquake; the whole building shudders worse than it ever had for the initial explosion as the skidding cab of the truck hits the breezeway first and goes straight through with a spray of stone and plaster. Neal can actually _feel_ the wind as it passes within inches of the three of them where they’re pressed into the doorjamb.

And then it’s past, but the danger isn’t anywhere near over.

Even as the roof of the overhang collapses, one edge clipping his shoulder painfully as it crumples, the truck hits the side of the building and keeps going, brick chips flying everywhere in a blinding, stinging spray. The entire edifice shakes down to its foundations as the body of the truck finally breaks out the other side, taking out most of the bottom corner of the building as it does.

If he had any less on his mind, he might have been more gratified to see that punching through two solid brick walls has finally brought the truck to a painful, grinding stop.

As it is, he’s more concerned with the way the building is still shivering with strain. A chunk of stone crashes to the ground only a few feet away from their shallow refuge, sending tiny shrapnel flying, and Neal flinches reflexively.

_(His family had two more rules, in case the first one doesn’t work. In case you feel yourself giving into the fear. Sliding—)_

One of the civilians—he can’t tell which one—screams directly in his ear as the building shakes and a hail of bits of stone and brick pelts the ground ever closer to them.

_(—losing your grip and starting to fall.)_

Alright, so this might not have been the best thought-out rescue attempt he’s ever been a part of.

_(Rule #2. Build yourself a net; build a safety net out of plain, simple facts to stop the panic, to steady you.)_

Facts:

1\. His name— The name on his driver’s license is Neal Caffrey.

2\. He is a consultant for the FBI.

3\. The truck is no longer directly a threat but it has further destabilized the building; the explosion weakened it, like taking away one side of a child’s tower of blocks, and now the truck has struck at the foundations and set the blocks teetering. They _will_ fall, and the three of them are directly underneath, no time to escape.

4\. The doorway is solid stone and mortar, and will provide some protection. And the civilians are small enough to fit behind his body where he’s braced up against the doorway. So, really, the debris won’t be hitting _them_ , it will be hitting _him_. Even if a decent portion of the outer wall should come down around them, so long as the doorway stands, their chances of survival are pretty good.

His own, not so much.

_(But if rule #2 isn’t working, if you still can’t shake the fear—)_

It’s almost funny, in that dark-humor kind of way, just how much time he’s spent denying his instincts—locking himself into his apartment at night so he didn’t go hunting muggers; running anytime a gun got within fifty feet of his hand, no matter which way it was pointed; effectively blinding and deafening himself to the screams and the pain—all of it, years’ worth of selfish self-denial, and now he’s as good as thrown it all away twice in as many weeks.

First the gas, and now this.

Maybe that’s what this is— maybe the gas is still in his system, maybe that’s why his chest feels half its usual size, why he’s over-aware of every breath that huffs between his lips.

_(—and your grip, it isn’t holding—)_

There’s a reason B made him train every spare moment, so that going in ill-prepared didn’t just add another body to the count.

Well, blew that one.

_(—his family had a third rule for staying alive.)_

He feels the rumble stutter as more supports give way, and looks up to see spiderwebbing cracks creeping across the lintel as the weight of accumulating rubble bears down on it. For a second, he thinks it might hold yet, but then there’s a sound like a gunshot and one, then two, then more of the cracks are gaping wider and wider, black wounds weeping flakes and dust.

He knows it won’t work, won’t get them out of range of the rubble, but he has to try; he throws them forward, out of the collapsing doorway right as the stone gives way under the strain and collapses in on itself. Debris fills the recess that they’d so recently occupied. The building shivers once more and then the strain becomes too much and the whole front wall peels away from the structure and topples forward. Right on top of them.

_(Rule #3. Pray you land somewhere soft)_

He closes his eyes, tucks his head in against the girl’s, and prays.

The wall hits the ground with the force of half a building’s worth of rubble behind it; in terms of pure destructive force, it might well have been even stronger than the initial blast. It hits the ground in sections, a staggered sensory bombardment from all directions.

It doesn’t even hurt.

The first thing he thinks is that maybe they were right about his mom and dad— maybe, if it’s sudden enough, you really don’t feel it.

Then common sense catches up and he opens his eyes.

The chunk of rubble that would have killed them is hanging in the air, six feet above their heads. Close enough that Neal can count every brick.

But right at this moment, he doesn’t even care. He’s too focused on the figure standing over them— the figure that _was not there_ a second ago. The blue-and-red figure, who is currently holding a 2,000 lb chunk of masonry over his head like it’s nothing.

He must make some kind of noise, because those eyes—so familiar, that shade, so bright blue that if you didn’t know better you might call it unearthly—flick down to his.

“It’s okay,” says the Superboy, looking him full in the—unmasked—face. “You’re safe now.”

.

.

.

_Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Super ex machina,_ anyone? But maybe not the Super you were expecting… ;)  
> I ended up splitting this into two chapters very late in the process, which is why the ‘guest appearance’ turned into ‘guest 3-second cameo’. Yeah, I know. Be assured, there is more to come.  
> Recognizable quotes are from _Batman: The Black Mirror, Part Three of Three._
> 
> Next time:  
> Most people are _happy_ when superheroes show up; Neal Caffrey’s day just keeps getting more complicated. Even if said superheroes are maybe not entirely what he’d expected.


	6. First Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most people are _happy_ when superheroes show up; Neal Caffrey’s day just keeps getting more complicated. Even if said superheroes are maybe not entirely what he’d expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, to anyone who is not yet aware: expect heavy spoilers for White Collar, especially Season 3.

Probably the most useful lesson that Neal Caffrey ever learned in his criminal career came from the unlikeliest of sources: not from Batman, who trained him to think like a criminal to catch them; not from Mozzie, who showed him how to act like a criminal to be a better one; not from Catwoman or the Riddler or the Penguin or Freeze or Ivy or even Vincent Adler.

No, the most important lesson he ever learned came from a mild-mannered, glasses-wearing reporter at the Daily Planet.

Superman had always taken the ribbings about his alter ego with good grace— and really, why shouldn’t he have? Superman had the most famous face on the _planet_ , and his great disguise was a pair of glasses and a little bit of clumsiness. And yet—and _yet!_ —no one ever gives him a second thought; he’s just Clark Kent from Smallville, Kansas, journalist, genuinely pleasant but ultimately forgettable. Even with all of B’s precautions and his secrecy, there are more people who know the face beneath the heavy cowl than there are people who know the face beneath that single windswept curl.

It had always driven B crazy, not that he’d ever admit it.

But for Robin, whose own identity was shielded by little more than a scrap of fabric and who’d always had a certain amount of hero-worship for Superman, it was fascinating— even _Lois_ had spent years chasing Superman and being chased by Clark Kent and never realized they were one and the same.

“It’s not just about the face,” Clark had said, smiling indulgently as Robin spun in circles on the chair that was _technically_ supposed to be occupied by whoever was on monitor duty. “Pa always says, people see what they’re looking for. If they’re not looking for Superman walking down the street like everyone else, they won’t see him. The glasses are more for me than them, really. They help me remember.”

“To act human?” Robin had asked—naively, he thinks now. Like Clark hasn’t always been more human than most card-carrying members of _Homo Sapiens_.

But Clark had just laughed. “To act like _me_ ,” he said. “Like Clark Kent, Ma and Pa Kent’s boy. Someone who doesn’t need superpowers to help people. Sometimes a disguise isn’t a mask or a wig. It’s just a different part of the real you. But I guess I don’t need to tell _you_ that.”

“What do you mean?”

Clark’s gaze had been knowing, and so gentle. “Robin is a part of you, isn’t he? And your parents— Don’t you bring them with you, every time you put on your uniform?”

He’d been right, of course; Robin had been a part of him. The part that could act on the vicious anger that still burned under his skin on bad days. On good days, Robin was the part that could help others, could find solace knowing that others would not suffer what he had.

Robin was the part that could honor his parents without being called _gypsy, circus trash, orphan boy_.

He was the part that could wear their colors, use the skills they taught him, take the lullaby that his father used to sing to him every night and use it to comfort the victims, to give them (and himself) courage even in the darkest times.

That—the song, the cape, the mask, quips and colors—was who Robin was. That was what people looked for.

Maybe that was why no one ever saw Neal Caffrey coming.

 

* * *

 

For a second, he can’t understand what he’s seeing.

He knows the symbol, and that face, that impossibly square jaw are familiar, but… not. Softer. Younger. And since when did Superman wear a leather jacket?

He can feel his mind wanting to fill in all the details that he once knew so well, but the pieces won’t quite fit. He’s looking, but he’s not seeing.

And yet there is undeniably a young man holding two tons of rubble over his head with only a hint of strain and the distinctive ‘S’ blazing on his chest. His head hurts, and nothing is making sense.

And then suddenly Peter’s there, grabbing at his shoulder, hauling him back, out of range of the debris that Superboy is still holding at bay. Neal is in no shape to think of releasing his death-grip, so the civilians are pulled along with them in a stumbling, six-legged mass of humanity.

“What the hell were you thinking,” Peter is shouting in his ear. “Goddamnit Neal, you could have died, I thought you were dead!”

“Peter, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he protests rather weakly, though, in truth, he’s not sure he’d even be able to tell if he was missing a few extremities. But he’s not the important one right now.

“Worry about _them,_ ” he insists, loosening his hold enough to pull the civilians to the fore.

Appropriately, the little girl chooses that moment to make an awful, rasping wet noise and cough blood directly onto his once-white shirt.

There is no way that is ever coming out and yet Neal has literally never cared less about the state of his clothing.

“Peter!” he says urgently, and Peter is already there, helping him ease the girl down without jarring anything as her mother clings to the three of them indiscriminately. Neal has to gently but firmly draw her back by the shoulders so that Peter can lean in to check the girl for injuries.

She’s shaking, big rolling shudders up and down her body as she watches Peter carefully check the little girl’s airways. Neal squeezes her shoulders a little, reassuringly, but she twists out of his grip to move back to her daughter’s side. She isn’t in Peter’s way, so he lets her be. In truth, he doesn’t really have the heart to drag her away again.

There’s a thud, loud enough to startle Neal, as Superboy tosses the debris to one side. “She okay?” he calls over, vaulting over a piece of rubble with more force than human strength could rightly account for.

Things have finally clicked together in his head; he can remember seeing Superboy on the news for the first time. And he can remember scoffing at the _sidekick-_ ness of the name. He feels significantly less inclined to laugh now.

There’s a moment where Neal isn’t sure what to do, what will draw the least attention—would this chronologically-two-year-old clone know the face of a moderately-famous boy who disappeared almost ten years ago? Is it more suspicious _not_ to react, to remain unmoving when a regular civilian would turn in gratitude or, at the very least, in curiosity?—and then, when Superboy gets close enough to try and reach for the girl, he decides he just doesn’t care.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, dodging into his path, getting right up in his face. He’s not stupid enough to try and overpower a Kryptonian by strength alone, but Superboy _doesn’t know that._

It’s a dirty trick, relying on Superboy’s unwillingness to hurt even the most obnoxious of civilians.

_(There’s a reason that the Justice League needs a Superman and a Batman. Good men can only do so much— sometimes you need someone who understands when to hit below the belt.)_

Superboy draws back a bit, hesitating, and that’s all Neal needs.

He raises his hands slowly in front of his chest, keeping his eyes wide and sincere.

First priority— deescalation.

“Look,” he says, pitching his voice low, almost soothing. “I know you want to help, but Peter— he’s FBI, he knows first aid. Let him take a look before you start trying to move her. Okay?”

Superboy glances between the two of them. God, he can’t be older than sixteen, biologically. Sixteen hadn’t seemed nearly so young a decade ago.

“I can help,” he insists.

But Neal remains resolute. “Let Peter work.”

Peter has been ignoring the exchange completely. His examination is careful yet methodical. His hands sweep gently up her sides, and when he presses gently at her ribs, she gives a horrible airless wail.

Peter’s face is white, but his hands are steady and businesslike as he catches her wrist before she can touch.

“Broken ribs,” he says grimly. “I don’t think she’s punctured a lung, but it’s close. What’s her name?”

“Hana,” her mother whispers, tears cutting jagged tracks through the grime on her face.

“Okay. Hana, can you hear me?” he asks, but the girl doesn’t respond, her round little face screwed up with pain as she squirms in Peter’s grip. The elastic on one of her pigtails has broken, and the loose hair is a lopsided, tangled black pool against her cheek. “Hana, my name is Peter, and this is my friend Neal. We’re going to help until the ambulance gets here, ok? But I need you to stay very still for me. Can you do that?”

“It’s the third rib on the left,” Superboy pipes up unexpectedly. “I can see it, it’s rubbing up against the side of the lung. Can you turn her on her side a bit? It should take some pressure off it.”

Peter glances at him and then, ever so subtly, his eyes flick over to Neal’s. Neal gives the slightest of nods and Peter leans down to speak soothingly to the little girl and her mother, presumably explaining what they’re about to do.

Neal turns back to Superboy, who is still hovering (figuratively, not literally. Always important to clarify when you’re dealing with metas).

“You got a line to EMS?” Neal asks. “Can you see how far out the ambulance is?”

Superboy tilts his head like he’s listening. “Two minutes, maybe? They’re up that way,” waving vaguely up the other end of the street, past the rubble and the wreckage of the truck. “Sounds like they’re having some trouble with visibility.”

Neal frowns. “Do you… Don’t you have a line to dispatch? NYPD? Someone?” Superboy just blinks, and Neal tries very hard not to grab him by the leather jacket and _shake_ him. “Do you at least have a _phone?_ How did you call for an ambulance?”

“Um,” Superboy says.

Neal huffs in disbelief and reaches into his own pocket. He hasn’t replaced his phone yet after the whole gas fiasco, so he’s been stuck with cheap plastic burners until Mozzie turns up with a better phone that meets his high standards for anonymity and encryption. Today, though, it’s nice to know that the device he’s tossing at a literal vigilante superhero’s face contains no identifying details.

“Call dispatch, tell them to let the ambulance know what they’re walking into,” he orders (it’s one thing to take charge when it’s his team and he knows that they’re out of their depth, it’s another to start bossing around a teenage superhero. But it’s just so _easy_ to fall back in— and the rules are pretty much out the window at this point anyways).

Superboy is looking at him strangely, like there’s something that he wants to say but it hasn’t fully formed even in his own mind, when Peter interrupts them.

“Damn it— Neal, I need you here!”

He’d managed to get her halfway up on her side before she’d started thrashing.

Peter has her braced at the hips, trying to keep her from rolling back over on her back— or, worse, onto her front. The mother is struggling to pin her legs, pleading in a jumbled mixture of English and another language—Japanese, from the sound of it— to _stay still, please don’t move_.

The girl wails her displeasure and weakly tries to fight, even as it only sparks another coughing fit that leaves her with bloody lips.

Neal abandons Superboy without another thought, dropping to his knees at her head and catching her hands before she can try smacking at Peter.

“Hey, sweetheart, no,” he croons, gently maneuvering her head into his lap, petting feather-light touches across her arm and shoulder, anywhere that seems safe.

With her head resting against his legs like this, he can _feel_ the way her frame convulses as she coughs and it makes his heart break. She feels as delicate as a doll.

He curls in over her, close enough that their foreheads touch, close enough that he can block out the world, just for a moment.

The words come to his lips as naturally as breathing, even after all this time.

“ _Once I was happy but now I'm forlorn_ ,” he sings into her hair, low at first, and then more surely.

  
_“Like an old coat that is tattered and torn_  
_Left on this wide world to fret and to mourn,_  
_Betrayed by a maid in her teens”_

At first, the little girl struggles harder, twisting in his grip, kicking out at Peter as he grimly holds her as still as he can. Neal keeps singing.

  
_“Now, the girl that I loved she was handsome_  
_I tried all I knew her to please_  
_But I could not please her one quarter so well_  
_As that man on the flying Trapeze”_

 

Although he’s usually a fairly decent singer, today he doesn’t think anyone will blame him if his voice isn’t at its best. And this is a song he knows better than his own heartbeat. The tune is simple enough, upbeat over the melancholy.

If his voice is a little weak, a little scratchy, it doesn’t detract too much from the effect. Slowly, slowly, the girl’s struggles ease. Her breathing is still labored, painful-sounding, but she doesn’t fight the hands that hold her still. Neal gently brushes some hair away from her face and she pushes into the touch as weakly as a newborn kitten.

 

_“He flies through the air with the greatest of ease_  
_That daring young man on the flying Trapeze_  
_His movements are graceful, all the girls he could please_  
_And my love he has stolen away…”_

He sings until the ambulance arrives, until practiced hands ease her from his grip to transfer her to a stretcher. He barely manages to straighten, joints aching from the uncomfortable position, before the mother is clutching at his hands, sobbing out thanks and apologies. An EMT appears, wraps a shock blanket around her shoulders and leads her away.

Someone tries to do the same for him, but he shrugs them off and staggers his way to where someone has managed to wrestle Peter into the back of a second ambulance. Something he seems supremely disgruntled by. His expression sours further when he sees Neal moving under his own power.

“You’re the one who nearly got crushed to death,” he accuses. “How come you still get to be walking around?”

Neal shrugs. “I’m slippery.”

“Don’t I know it.” Peter’s tone is fond.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of color at roof-height, and then again, moving closer.

A flash of red.

Time to go.

He intentionally twists a bit too far as he turns, and the wince is completely genuine. Peter catches it, as Neal was counting on him to do.

“Hey!” he calls out to the nearest EMT, half-sitting up on the stretcher. “Why hasn’t anyone checked this man for injuries yet?”

“Peter, I’m fine, really,” he says, letting a little of his genuine embarrassment come to the surface. “I don’t want a lot of fuss.”

“You nearly died,” Peter retorts fiercely. “And if I have to go to the hospital again, so do you, buster. You’re _my_ responsibility, remember?”

“I remember,” Neal says softly. This time, he accepts the shock blanket, and hauls himself up into the ambulance. Peter sits up and scoots over to make room on the stretcher, ignoring the EMT’s chastising looks. Neal settles in next to him gratefully.

Peter grunts approvingly and turns to start arguing with the woman about the necessity of the blood pressure cuff.

Her partner looks amused and leaves her to it, hopping back out of the ambulance and drawing the doors most of the way closed.

Not a moment too soon.

“Superboy!” He hears the snap of a line retracting, but the half-open door of the ambulance blocks his line of sight. “You weren’t answering your comms.”

“Oh.” Superboy, on the other hand, he can see all too clearly.He digs in his ear with one finger, drawing out something small and flesh-colored. “Yeah, shorted it somehow. I couldn’t hear anything after I went in.”

“I caught a little.” And suddenly Neal has never been so grateful for anything in his life as that open ambulance door. “I thought I heard— Was someone singing?”

Superboy wasn’t the nightmare, _this_ is the nightmare.

He needs to not be here anymore.

Superboy’s head tilts a little, casting his face into profile. His resemblance to Clark really is striking like that. “Oh, yeah. There was this guy… It was actually kind of weird, he reminded me of…”

_Hurry up_ , he urges the medics silently. _There are people bleeding back here!_

Something yellow flutters into view at the edge of the ambulance door. “Where is he now?”

“Uh, he was just right over—”

As Superboy starts to turn, the last EMT hauls himself up into the back of the ambulance, slamming the door shut behind him. “All good back here, Em!” he calls, rapping twice on the partition to signal the driver.

“Gotcha,” Em calls back, and the engine roars to life.

The ambulance pulls out slowly, swerving at least once to avoid a piece of rubble in the street. For all Neal knows, it could be the very piece of rubble that had so nearly turned him into a human pancake.

As they pull away, for just a moment through the tiny back window, Neal can see Superboy, and the slight, red-black-and-yellow figure next to him.

He’s only half-turned, the light glaring off the lenses of his mask. It’s impossible to say for certain that he can see Neal as clearly as Neal can see him.

But somewhere inside, Neal knows.

And then the ambulance swerves again and he’s gone. Just like that.

“Hey,” Peter says next to him. “Still alright?”

He feels strangely disconnected from his own face as he smiles. “Of course.”

“Seems like this hero thing is starting to become a habit,” Peter says, sarcasm to cover the concern. “And here I thought you got into enough trouble on the _wrong_ side of the law.”

“I promise you,” Neal says, not lifting his gaze from the dingy little ambulance window, “this kind of trouble, I don’t go looking for.”

His fingers flex against his thighs.

“This one just found _me_.”

 

* * *

 

Ten years. Ten years away, ten years building something different and this is how it all starts to crumble.

Not for the first time, his thoughts spin down darker, more paranoid paths.

Was it fate or fortune or something more calculated, that Neal Caffrey should be walking down the street right as it explodes, with Superboy and Robin conveniently on hand to swoop in and save the day?

And now— now Robin knows, he could see it in his eyes, he _knows_. And if Robin knows, then soon enough, Batman will know.

He’ll _know_.

In a strange way, it’s almost lucky that the search for Adler goes to hell shortly after that. He ends up not have much time at all to dwell on all the ways that his life is going to start falling apart, because it’s too busy _blowing u_ p— Adler’s back and Alex is missing and he and Sara are suddenly _something_ and there are booby-trapped WWII U-boats and stolen Nazi treasures and he doesn’t really have time to breathe let alone brood (it’s lucky that Alex really did have the code to disarm the booby-traps— even for a man of Neal Caffrey’s varied skills, it would have been hard to explain why early 20th century EOD was among them).

And then Adler is gone and it’s _Peter_ in his face, furious, accusing him of a crime that (for once) _he didn’t commit_.

When he finds himself standing in front of a stolen Nazi treasure big enough for him to disappear so thoroughly even Batman won’t be able to find him…

…well, it’s no more an excuse than Peter’s strange, sudden suspicion.

But.

Neal Caffrey is one of the greatest art thieves in the world.

He’s a liar, a cheater, a conman, a criminal.

And now, no matter how he got here, he is standing in the middle of the greatest treasure trove ever assembled in one place outside of the Louvre.

All that art, and it’s his. For whatever purpose he decides to put it to.

_(Sometimes the best disguises are just a different part of the real you.)_

Slowly, he smiles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting how busy March would be, nor how much difficulty this chapter in particular would give me— I'm not even going to try and make guarantees on when updates will come, but know that I am unbelievably grateful for all the support and kudos and wonderful comments! I hope you'll forgive the somewhat sporadic schedule and stay tuned!
> 
> The song is a detail I picked up from New 52. The original song is ‘The Man on the Flying Trapeze’, and the version I personally prefer is by Henry Hall, if you want to take a listen:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LR5ntF9XjhA
> 
>  
> 
> Next time:
> 
> A new, young jewel thief appears in New York, and everyone starts acting like he’s Caffrey 2.0 (or should it be 3.0?)


	7. Next Gen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new, young jewel thief appears in New York, and everyone starts acting like he’s Caffrey 2.0 (or should it be 3.0?)

This building is _not_ one that Neal Caffrey would have chosen for a base.

Oh, the bones are good enough—elegant lines, high windows, multiple staircases for quick egress—but it’s descended into somewhere between _industrial chic_ and _up-scale drug squat._ Plus, plenty of hipster college students living on Mommy and Daddy’s money who might remember your name or face if they ever manage to surface from their kegs and bongs.

Peter briefs them as they climb.

“This guy’s a skilled forger, safe cracker, lots of panache, and everything we got on him says he’s just a kid. I think we might be looking at the next Neal Caffrey.”

Neal scowls. “He’s a hacker. I don’t _hack_.”

They round the last flight of stairs.

“You’re right,” Peter agrees amiably. “A Neal Caffrey for the new millennia, then.”

Neal scowls harder. “When I was his age, I didn’t get _caught_.”

In his opinion, Diana is (not that he’d dare say it to her face) far too eager to break down doors. But before he can think on it more, he’s swept aside by the wave of FBI agents pouring into the room, guns drawn.

“FBI!” Peter shouts, “Hands in the— Oh _-_ ho. Cute.”

Neal ducks inside to see what’s caught his attention and finds a whole team of grown FBI agents standing around a Roomba with an upturned vase on top like a bunch of grinning idiots.

“Why are you smiling,” he asks Peter.

Peter chuckles. “He’s clever.” Indicating the Roomba, “It casts a shadow on the door and doesn’t move in a fixed pattern. He realized we were sitting on him and bolted.”

“Looks like that,” Neal says, wondering why no one seems upset that their suspect is _gone_. If this was how the FBI had acted when they were chasing _him_ , it was no wonder he’d gotten away with it for as long as he had.

And Peter is treating the whole thing like he’s a preschooler with a shiny new toy.

Not that Neal’s jealous, no matter what Peter seems to think.

It’s just that things have been… strained between them, since the whole treasure thing. They’ve reached a sort of equilibrium, but it’s not—

It’s not what they had before, and that hurts.

And now Peter’s picked up on some upstart new punk like the two of them are birds of a fucking feather.

“I love tracking the smart ones,” Peter says happily. “Now that you’re on my side, I miss the challenge.”

_Am I on your side, Peter? You tell me. No, really._ Tell me _._

And then Diana calls grimly from deeper within the apartment, “Boss, you need to see this.”

All across the length of one wall, someone has created a masterpiece that would make a conspiracy theorist cry. Delicate red threads tie together mugshots, surveillance photos, building blueprints, police reports, and even a few glossy photographs that have clearly been carefully trimmed from gossip magazines into an intricate, meandering spider’s web of research. At the center of the maelstrom is a single piece of lined notebook paper on which someone has scrawled a messy question mark in thick black marker.

“These photos,” Peter says, leaning in to examine a cluster of photos of what Neal recognizes as the second site the thief had hit. Scrawled along the edges are notes in a cramped, messy hand. “These are professional. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think our thief had training in law enforcement.”

“He knows how to case a building,” Neal agrees, but his attention has been caught by something else. Carefully, he reaches out and unpins a single photograph from the collage. “Look at this.”

Peter comes right up behind him, peering over his shoulder. “That looks like the necklace from the Wright robbery. But that’s not a surprise. That was the one that put him on our radar in the first place.”

“Yes, but look at this,” Neal insists, angling the photo upwards. “You see these gems? See how green they are?”

“I see,” Peter says, but his eyebrows are bunched up in a way that says he’s still waiting for Neal to make his point.

“Hazel Wright filed an insurance claim for one emerald necklace. The only picture she had was in black and white, so I didn’t notice— Peter, have you _ever_ seen emeralds that color?”

Peter takes the photo from his hand and examines it more closely. “No, I don’t think so,” he admits. “So you’re saying it’s a forgery?”

“Worse.” Neal reaches and takes down another picture, and another. All the loot from their young thief’s crime spree, stamped out laser-printed in full color. And from every photograph, that same vivid, _unearthly_ green glares up at them. “I think our thief is after something a lot more dangerous than Granny’s jewels.

“Peter, what do you know about kryptonite?”

 

* * *

 

As soon as they get back to the FBI, Peter disappears into Hughes’ office. The rest of the team gathers at the foot of the stairs, peering upward, but it’s impossible to tell what’s happening in the belly of the beast.

“How long do you think,” asks Diana, arms crossed tightly, gaze fixed on the glass wall of the ASAC’s office, “before Agent Smith and Agent Smith show up and tell us to forget all about this?”

Neal assumes, at first, that she’s being facetious, but her face is completely stolid.

Jones grunts unhappily. “Last time they were waiting when we got back.”

“ _Last_ time?” Neal asks, incredulous. “This has happened to you before?”

“Well, not _this_ ,” Clinton admits. “Last time it was some idiot trying to pass dangerous alien artifacts off as ancient Sumerian antiquities. Some messed up _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ shit. We thought it was just forgeries, didn’t realize until we got in there. Anyways, the Men in Black showed up with a bunch of blacked-out paperwork and walked out with the artifacts, neat as you please. Bancroft came down himself, told us all not to talk about it again.”

“You’re talking about it now,” Neal points out.

“Yeah, and if they want to neuralize me for it, I’ll save ‘em a trip.” He shakes his head. “Kryptonite, though. Damn. Hey, think if we get it all back, the big guy will come and say thanks?”

“If we get it all back, I’m pretty sure the _big guy_ will be smart enough to stay far away,” Neal says, not letting himself think of the disaster it would be if Superman _did_ show up at White Collar.

“Oh, right,” Jones says, disappointed. “Anyways, Peter was spitting mad last time. He’s not going to give up this one without a fight.”

Appropriately, at that moment the two men in the office seem to come to some kind of agreement. Peter says something inaudible, gesturing down at the bullpen, and Hughes nods and waves him off, already on the phone.

Peter steps out onto the landing, apparently unsurprised to see them all huddled up like naughty schoolchildren waiting outside the principal’s office.

“Conference room,” he calls down, and the team obediently follow him up and settle around the long table. Someone has already moved what few files they do have so far on the mysterious thief into the room, and the most pertinent of the crime scene photos are pinned up on the tack-board.

Neal chooses a seat at the head of the table, the sun at his back; sometimes he’ll forgo the chair entirely and join Peter up at the front, but today he finds he’s not in the mood.

Peter steps forward, carefully laying out a pile of full-sized photographs one by one. Each of the pieces that have been stolen in the last few weeks, plus a few they hadn’t known about until they’d found the pictures pinned up on that apartment wall. There are pendants, chokers, tennis bracelets, rings, tie pins, even a watch— and every single one of them gleams kryptonite-green.

Peter pins them all with his steely brown stare. “For the last three weeks,” he says, “we’ve been on a new player who’s been hitting some of New York City’s most affluent and well-protected neighborhoods. So far, we’ve been assuming that his target of choice was jewels, but thanks to Neal—” a slight incline of his head in acknowledgement. Neal carefully does not react. “—we now know that his target is something much more dangerous.”

He plucks up a photograph of one of the more opulent items; a heavy collar encrusted with what appeared to be diamonds and emeralds that, when worn, would have stretched out across the length of its owner’s shoulders.

“Kryptonite,” Peter says grimly. “It’s a stone that doesn’t occur naturally on Earth, and it’s extremely hazardous. Most people have heard about how it affects individuals with Kryptonian genetics— Yes,” Peter says, acknowledging the slight murmurs, “like Superman, and some others— but what most people _don’t_ know is that kryptonite emits low-level radiation that can be extremely dangerous to humans under prolonged exposure.

“As far as we know, none of these individuals,” a motion towards where the victim profiles were neatly lined up across the top of the projector screen, “were even aware that their possessions contained kryptonite, which is a highly controlled substance. We’ve already assigned agents to discreetly contact each of the victims and ensure that they receive proper medical screening for any complications arising from exposure.”

“However, I’m sure I don’t need to tell any of how important it is at this time to keep all information relating to this case under wraps until we know whether we’re dealing with a super-level threat or just some kid who’s in way over his head.”

His gaze sweeps across them and every agent nods or makes some sign of acknowledgement. Neal remains sullenly silent.

“So now what, Boss?” Diana asks.

Peter’s gaze lingers on Neal for a moment longer before he answers her. “Now, we work the case. Eighteen robberies in a little over a month, each one focusing on a specific piece. He gets in, he gets the kryptonite, he gets out; nothing else is ever missing. Sixteen of them were simple break-ins, mostly while the owners were out, and no one ever remembered having heard or seen anything unusual.”

“Oh, this kid did the Hartford Mansion job?” Jones whistles lowly as he looks up from the file in front of him.

“Ooh.” Neal flutters his hands derisively. Hartford Mansion had hardly been that impressive; the security system was top of the line, sure, but embarrassingly spotty at the edges of the property; that the gem had disappeared from off the lady of the manor’s neck during a crowded gala was _flashy_ , certainly, but not much of a feat for anyone who knew even decent sleight of hand.

His partner doesn’t rise to the bait. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He’s a kid,” Neal says flippantly. “Thinks he’s a big man, thinks he’s smarter than everyone, so he does whatever he wants.”

Peter looks at him, and he sighs.

“He’s not in it for the money, but he grew up surrounded by enough wealth to know how those kinds of people think. He has training, a mentor, but he’s starting to strike out on his own. Push the boundaries. He has a mission of some kind, one that only he knows, and he’s not going to stop until he completes it.”

“You think he’s dangerous?”

“Lots of people are dangerous.” Neal drums his fingers once across the arm of his chair. “None of the victims knew anything about the Kryptonite. They wouldn’t have known about the radioactivity. And most of it was in jewelry, things that were worn right against the body.”

“By stealing it, he probably saved at least some of them from getting pretty sick,” Diana adds, sounding a little uncomfortable with the idea. “You think he’s trying to help?”

Neal spreads his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. We don’t even know if _he_ knows. None of the kryptonite has turned up for sale yet, but maybe he’s waiting until he can sell it as a single haul. And we don’t even know how a bunch of law-abiding civilians ended up with Kryptonite jewelry without realizing it, or _why_. There’s too many pieces missing. All we know is that, somehow, this kid knows where to find these pieces and he’s going to keep stealing them.”

“And he’s cocky,” he adds, after a thought. “Almost getting caught won’t stop him.”

“Will he get bolder?” Peter asks, and Neal slouches down lower in his seat so he doesn’t have to meet anyone’s eye as he admits in a mumble, “That’s what _I_ did.”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes it’s funny to think how much things have changed since the start of this partnership.

Once upon a time, Peter had been scandalized and frustrated that his criminal informant would think it was ok to show up at his _home_ (really though, he’d had the break in the case— was he supposed to have just _waited?_ ).

Now, Elizabeth doesn’t even bat an eye when she walks in to find them both poring over case files at the kitchen island. Expects it, even.

“So, what’s the case?” she asks curiously after they’ve finished their adorable domestic teasing.

Peter lights up with his usual enthusiasm for a new puzzle. “Young con man stealing from New York’s wealthy.”

“Ooh, a young Neal?” El says brightly, and Neal grits his teeth silently. “…touchy subject?”

“Apparently,” Peter says, and Neal forces his jaw to unclench.

“It’s not,” he says, daring Peter to contradict him. Peter visibly suppresses a grin but lets him have it.

It’s slow going, sifting through the files with no idea of what they’re looking for— the apartment is a dead end, paid for under a generic alias, the few possessions within impersonal and unremarkable. Soap, a few boxes of protein bars, a few changes of clothes, empty cans of energy drink. No hairbrush. No laptop, although a probie did find a charger for a phone plugged in by the bed. No phone, though, and no phone records attached to the alias used to rent the apartment. No physical evidence at the previous crime scenes, and no apparent pattern for where the thief would strike next.

“Maybe we could draw him out,” Peter suggests, not for the first time. “Create some ‘kryptonite’ of our own, put the word out. Maybe he’ll bite.”

“Yeah,” Neal says, “because after the FBI raided his apartment, that won’t seem like a trap at all.” He grunts, drops the map that he’d been studying to dig at the bridge of his nose. “Besides, however he’s tracking the kryptonite, he’d be able to tell ours wasn’t real.”

Elizabeth, who’s been quietly focused on her own work as they talk in circles, looks up curiously. “‘Tracking’? Like a Geiger Counter?”

Neal shakes his head. “Kryptonite’s radioactive signature—especially for pieces of this size—is weak enough that a Geiger Counter wouldn’t reliably be able to distinguish it from natural atmospheric radiation unless you were right on top of it. You’d have to already know where the kryptonite was, which defeats the whole purpose.”

He notices both Peter and Elizabeth staring at him and shrugs a little. “I read,” he says simply.

“…Right,” Peter says. “So not a Geiger Counter. How about some sort of atmospheric measurements?”

“For a half-ounce piece of kryptonite?” Neal raises an eyebrow. “It would be like trying to find a single drop of blood in the ocean.”

El makes a face. “Well, there has to be some way to find it. How does the Justice League do it?”

“They—” He comes to a halt abruptly.

“Neal?” Peter says, sounding concerned.

Neal says nothing. His mind is spinning.

“Elizabeth,” he breathes after a few moments. “You’re a genius.”

“I am?” she says, surprised.

“Yes!” He nearly shoots out of his chair, newly flush with energy. “Years ago, Wayne industries invested millions of dollars in installing advanced particulate detectors in most major cities. Originally, they were pitched as a way to monitor pollution levels and air quality, but then people started figuring out that they could be used to detect all sorts of kinds of foreign particles, even trace amounts. Since then, scientists have been using them to study substances that it’s difficult to create or collect for laboratory study. Unstable substances, things like that. And they’re _extremely_ sensitive. As long as you know what you’re looking for—”

Peter’s eyes light up. “We can use these detectors to pinpoint a location.”

“Exactly.”

“And that’s what the Justice League does?” El asks uncertainly.

Thrown, Neal stutters. “Wh— I-I— I wouldn’t know. I mean, I think they have, like… satellites and things. It just— Made me think of it.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth shrugs, appeased.

Meanwhile, Peter has produced his laptop seemingly from nowhere and is typing furiously. “It looks like there are three labs in New York that work with the data from your particulate detectors.”

(“They’re not _mine_ ,” Neal objects, but no one seems to notice.)

“The first,” Peter says, ”is EPA. No surprises there, but I doubt that they routinely check for Kryptonite. The second is more interesting: it’s just listed as ‘Team 7’, and everything else is marked ‘classified’.”

“Now _that_ sounds like a black-site to me,” Neal remarks and Peter makes a little noise of agreement. “What about the last one?”

“Columbia University labs. I pulled up the university website, and you might be interested to see which departments share that particular lab.” He swivels the laptop around so that Neal can see, and immediately, he sees what caught Peter’s attention.

“Department of Extraterrestrial Studies?” he reads, glancing up wryly. “If there’s anywhere our thief could have learned everything he wants to know about kryptonite, it’s gotta be there.”

“Sounds like a good place to start,” Peter says, kissing El and reaching for his coat.

 

* * *

 

The geriatric professor who claims to run the lab seems distinctly unimpressed by Peter’s badge. It takes nearly half an hour of wheedling and a threat to call the bursar before the man finally relents and allows them inside his precious lab.

Once inside, though, he brightens considerably once he understands what they’re actually interested in.

“Ah, _kryptonite_ ,” Professor Tuft coos, sounding suspiciously like a crazy old cat lady calling for a favored tabby. “Such a fascinating little rock. So innocuous, and yet such a staggering effect on Kryptonid species!”

“Don’t you mean Kryptonian?” Neal can’t resist asking, even as he very carefully avoids letting his jacket even brush the side of the various dishes and test tubes covering every inch of flat surface.

The professor peers at him through bifocals that have clearly been sat on at some point in time. “Young man, I know what I said. Now— you were asking about the Wayne-Tech particulate detectors?”

“Yes,” Peter jumps in. “We were wondering if these detectors could possibly be used to track small amounts of kryptonite— say, the size of a gemstone.”

“Possible?” Tuft says. “ _Possible?_ Why, I’d say it’s more than possible, Agent Book! It’s funny you should ask about it, in fact, as just a few weeks ago, a young man came in asking something very similar— I still have the cartography stored on the servers, if you’d like to take a look.”

“It’s Burke, actually,” Peter says, “And we’d like that very much.”

With how pleased Tuft seems to be just to have someone interested in his work, it’s no wonder that the thief was able to learn all about kryptonite without setting off any alarms. Add in the fact that Peter (or, as he seems to be resigning himself to being called, ‘Agent Book’) has to walk him through sending an email, he’s exactly the sort of low-tech amateur enthusiast that would slip right through the JL surveillance net.

But he’s helpful enough, even if he doesn’t seem to understand how sharing the location of a highly controlled substance like kryptonite with some random kid might be a bad idea.

“Can you remember anything about the person who asked you about the kryptonite readings?” Peter asks.

The professor thinks for a minute, scratching at his elbow. “He was a young man. Very young. Dark hair. Looked a lot like your friend here— You two aren’t related, are you?”

“ _No_ ,” Neal snaps, before Peter is steering him away by the elbow, thanking Tuft for all his help and promising to keep him updated.

 

* * *

 

“There’s no way this will work,” Neal complains as Peter discreetly flashes his badge at the security guard outside Chad Stewart’s $20 million loft.

“It will work,” Peter insists out of the side of his mouth, maintaining eye contact with the doorman as he calls up to his employer. “This was the only significant deposit of you-know-what that our thief _hasn’t_ hit yet. And seeing as the longest gap between heists so far has been five days, he should hit Mr. Stewart any day now. All we have to do is watch and wait.”

Neal suppresses a grimace as they’re forced to dodge out of the way of two workers carrying a crate with enough booze to give Gorilla Grodd alcohol poisoning.

“It’s not going to work,” he repeats, but Peter ignores him.

It _does_ work (mostly thanks to Neal’s impeccable skill, as usual), but by the time _Chad_ agrees to let them stake out the party, Neal is already wishing it hadn’t.

Chad is like every stereotype of an arrogant young dot-com millionaire with more money than taste. He’s clearly one of those people who views himself as a trendsetter, as the pioneer of the next generation, as someone who’d outpaced the niceties and the comprehension of the generations that came before.

Basically, he’s a little shit.

But he’s a _rich_ little shit; everything in his loft seems to have been chosen specifically to flaunt its expense. From the $100,000 motorcycle that is to be the centerpiece of his current party, to thebrilliantly-green ‘emerald’ carvings that he’s adapted into beer tap handles.

_Beer tap handles._

And they’d thought they’d actually have to go _looking_ for the kryptonite.

At the core of it all, Chad is just a child who never really grew up, with an unlimited allowance and no supervision. And now he has the FBI as his newest playthings.

Peter, that lucky bastard, gets to hide out in the van while Neal and Jones stoically endure Chad’s ever-more-irritating antics.

By the time Chad sends his undercover _buddy_ , Agent Westley, to fetch him a beer, Jones is right on the edge.

“Come _on_ ,” he snaps, taking both beers from Westley and depositing them on the drinks tray of a passing waiter. The waiter—a skinny blond in an ill-fitting jacket who definitely doesn’t look old enough to be serving alcohol—looks startled to have two untouched bottles added to his load. But then, it doesn’t look like most of the party guests are the kind of people who pass on alcohol. Especially not when there are girls in painfully tight dresses offering body shots at 3:00 in the afternoon.

He probably doesn’t want to know how much of an obscene amount of money all of the staff are undoubtedly being paid to keep their mouths shut and not look too hard at anyone’s IDs.

It’s when Chad starts actually _telling_ people that they’re FBI that Jones has finally had enough. He plasters on a huge fake smile and drapes an arm around Westley’s shoulders. “Okay,” he says, “It’s time to put the fear of God in him,” and deftly steers Westley through the crowd towards their host.

Left alone, Neal lets the party flow around him.

“I'm not sure how long our cover's gonna last, Peter,” he warns, not bothering to keep his voice low. No one’s paying attention.

Peter’s voice crackles across the radio. “ _You need to make positive I.D. on our young thief as soon as possible._ ”

Easier said than done; with the exception of the few FBI agents, every single party guest is young, fake, and only here for Chad’s money. But that’s pretty par for the course with these kinds of things.

He glances at the bar but the kryptonite taps (still tacky as hell— probably literally at this point with the amount of beer that’s been flowing), but they’re still in place. The only people anywherenearby at this point are Agent Casey, who’s nursing a tonic, no gin a few feet down the bar, and the bartender, who’s been as vetted as possible given the time frame. No one else has lingered much longer than it takes to get a new drink. If their thief is here, he’s certainly taking his time.

Or waiting for something.

There’s a crack like a gunshot and someone screams.

The FBI agents in the crowd react immediately, guns out, shouting the crowd back as they search for the threat. Neal is only a few steps behind, heart in his throat. They’d assumed—partly on _his_ assessment—that their thief was nonviolent, that this would be a theft, not a robbery. If they’re wrong, all these people are at risk.

Finally, he finds a break in the crowd, pushes through. It takes him less than a second to take in the details of the scene before him.

Jones and the other agents are in a loose half-circle, weapons lowering. In the center of the ring are a handful of startled-looking partygoers with drinks still in hand. One of the women still has her hand pressed loosely against her throat. She’s clearly the screamer.

Scattered across the ground are shards of glass. On the wall above, a lamp with the exposed filaments still smoking.

_“Neal!”_ Peter is shouting in his ear. _“What’s going on? NEAL!”_

“It’s okay,” Neal manages. “False alarm. Just a faulty bulb.”

_“And the kryptonite?”_

Neal spins and swears.

The bartender is slumped over the bar, likely unconscious, and the kryptonite is gone.

“It was a distraction,” he spits, scanning the crowd. “The thief is here, he has the kryptonite.”

_“All teams, move in!”_ Peter barks over the radio. _“Seal off the building, no one in or out!”_

The party is in chaos, the guests already pressing against the agents on the door, shouting and panicked.

Amid the frenzy, one flash of movement catches his eye. Movement in the _wrong_ direction. One fish, swimming against the current.

The young waiter is heading purposefully towards the back door, shedding his ill-fitting jacket as he goes.

The blond hair has slipped, revealing a few wisps of black around the edges.

“Jones!” Neal shouts, pointing through the crowd, and heads turn.

Unfortunately, the thief’s is one of them. He turns just enough for Neal to catch a hint of profile, a flash of blue, and then the thief bolts.

“Oh no you don’t,” Neal growls and follows.

He dodges through the crowd with agility borne of long practice, but the thief has a head start; he slams through the service doors precious seconds before Neal.

And Neal, in spite of the fact that he once spent five years being trained to _never go through a door unless you know what’s on the other side_ , follows him without even breaking step.

Agent Davies had been assigned to cover the back exit; Neal leaps over his prone body as he lies, winded, on the floor of the service corridor. Two more steps and he slams through a second door, and then he’s in the alley, just in time to see the thief disappear over the top of the fence blocking off access to the street.

Blood pumping, Neal follows.

He doesn’t bother with the fence itself— too tall for a straight leap, vaulting would only waste momentum.

Instead, he aims at the wall, pouring on that last little bit of speed. Plant a foot on the bricks. One, two, three steps, one hand on top of the fence. Let his momentum carry him over the top, tuck into a roll (another suit, ruined), and straight back up to a run.

The thief is still ahead of him, but his lead is narrower. Not enough— he’s seconds away from the open street and anonymity.

So he acts.

It’s a stupid thing to do, seeing as he has absolutely no plan for what he’ll do if he actually _catches_ the thief, but he’s so caught up in the chase itself that he doesn’t even stop to think.

“Hey!” he yells, and to his surprise, the thief actually glances over his shoulder, stumbling to such a sudden stop that he nearly face-plants straight into the ground.

He _knows_ that face.

_It’s you,_ he thinks, just as the thief says, “It’s you!”

There’s something intense, almost eager in that narrow face.

“I mean, I knew you were— but I didn’t think—” He glances at the fence behind Neal, back towards the party and the agents who will swarming any second now. “I can explain, I promise, but not now. I’ll find you, okay? I promise.”

It feels more like a threat than a promise.

The fence rattles as a body collides with it and begins to climb.

But he can’t— he physically can’t move as the thief bolts an instant before Peter hauls himself heavily over the fence, hampered further by the gun in his hand.

“Neal! Where is he?”

Neal forces his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. “He ran out the back.”

Peter swears and points at one of the agents who followed him clumsily over the fence. “Set up a perimeter, he couldn’t’ve gone far. White male, dark hair, white shirt and black pants. Go!”

“It’s too late, Peter,” Neal says, cold in a way that the June heat can’t touch. “He has everything he needs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we come to the start of our first real arc! Direct contact! Updated character tags! Who’s excited?  
> Thanks again so much for all the lovely comments and kudos, hope you enjoyed this latest installment— Happy St. Patty’s Day, and stay tuned!
> 
> (All recognizable dialogue is from White Collar episode ‘Scot Free’.)
> 
> Next: There a couple of conversations that people need to have before _anyone’s_ flocking together.


	8. Of A Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There a couple of conversations that people need to have before _anyone’s_ flocking together.

Twelve hours ago, Neal Caffrey woke up in his beautiful, airy apartment with a stunning, fearless woman in his bed.

He’d eased out of bed, so careful not to wake her, and gone to make breakfast because, well— that’s what you do, when you’re lucky enough to have a woman like Sara Ellis sleeping in your bed on a beautiful Tuesday morning.

Besides, if there’s one skill that he can be wholly, unconflictedly proud of, it’s his cooking. It’s something that he made an independent decision to learn and, best of all, it’s not even illegal.

(Diana might tease him about a bit of illicit unpasteurized cheese, but— the real _crime_ there would be to accept an inferior substitute.)

So he gets to show off a bit, even as he pampers her as she deserves, and if Peter showing up unannounced ruins some of his more ambitious plans, well. There’s always tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that.

And the treasure is always there, in the back of his mind, the expiration date that he keeps putting off _just a little longer_ , but how can not let himself enjoy this for however long it lasts? And sometimes he thinks, hopes, that just maybe, if he plays his cards right, if he finds the right words to explain, to persuade, then maybe this _—them—_ doesn’t have to end. Maybe she’ll— Choose. Him. Them. The two of them, together.

It’s probably a foolish dream, but somewhere deep inside of him, there’s always been a quiet spring of unremitting optimism.

But that was all this morning.

Funny, how easy it is to fall from what had felt like the top of the world.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t black out, exactly.

Nor does he dissociate— he’s endured both, knows how they feel. This isn’t that.

He’s still inside his own body, he’s still aware and responding to people when they talk to him, he’s going through all the necessary motions. He can remember forming plans, possibilities, a million different, coherent thoughts flickering through his mind, but he can’t seem to hold on to them.

It’s like someone took the last few frames of film and held them over a candle, until they started to blister and smear.

Or maybe like he’d been been painting a picture, focusing on every stroke, only to find out at the end that he’d forgotten to put paint on his brush. He can remember the action, but not the substance. It’s a strange feeling.

There are other symptoms too: cold hands, dry mouth, colors that seem just a little too bright.

He knows what this is. Trauma response.

But that doesn’t make _sense._

Not because he’s stupid enough to think he’s not traumatized—that’s kind of a given—but because there’s no reason for him to feel it now. Nothing happened, there’s nothing that should have triggered him. He’s just being ridiculous.

He makes it through the debrief back at the office on autopilot. Sits quietly through the office-wide commiseration on the failed sting. No one seems to notice anything too far out of the ordinary— he’s not the only one who seems to be brooding on their failure. Peter, too, seems as surly as he always does when a criminal manages to escape his grasp.

Big change from his attitude yesterday at the empty apartment. If Neal weren’t so preoccupied, he might have wondered why.

Instead, he escapes back to June’s as soon as possible.

Sara’s working a case of her own tonight—the insurance recovery business never sleeps, he supposes—and there’s a message on his phone telling him not to wait up.

He’s— glad is the wrong word for it, but it certainly makes things easier.

Neal wakes up in his beautiful, airy apartment with an empty bed and a pit in his stomach.

He doesn’t bother with breakfast— no point. It wouldn’t stay down, anyways.

He dresses carefully, layers on the armor.

He feels like he’s coming apart at the seams, like _Neal Caffrey_ is just a thin coat of paint over what has always been underneath, and it’s peeling away. He feels like anyone could look at him now and _see_.

Well, they say that the clothes make the man. He dons his favorite hat and sets it carefully at a jaunty angle.

It’s more important than ever that he looks his best.

Not that anyone at the office seems to notice. Neither Diana nor Jones gives him so much as a second glance, too engrossed in evidence reports and witness statements.

Which is, obviously, the best case scenario. Extra scrutiny is the last thing he needs.

(and for the rest of it, well, he chooses to believe he simply looks his best _every_ day.)

Peter—well, Peter wouldn’t notice if Neal showed up in a feather boa and short pants. Not when there’s a mystery to solve.

“We’ve got a name,” Peter announces, and then, before Neal can have a heart attack, “Our thief is going by Alvin Draper.”

“ _Alvin?_ ” Neal can’t help asking.

“Yeah, talk about an obvious alias,” Jones opines.

“There’s more,” Peter says, and hands him a photograph. Neal has to peer over Jones’ shoulder to get a good look.

It’s surprisingly high-quality— no distortion, no pixelation, even if the angle is a little unusual. Almost vertical. No timestamp, so not a surveillance camera.

The photographer had caught him just as he was bursting through the door to the alley. The ill-fitting waiter’s jacket is half off his shoulders and the blond wig sits crooked across his crown, partially obscuring his features. Small miracles.

Still, there’s no denying that it’s very definitely their thief.

Neal looks at the picture.

_What are you up to now, Robin?_

“When you said ‘kid’, I thought you meant nineteen, maybe twenty,” Diana says, a crease carved into her brow. “College age. Not the kind of ‘kid’ who probably still has his learner’s permit.”

Peter looks grave. “We haven’t been able to confirm his age—or his identity—but for right now, we assume that he is a minor. And we act accordingly. Understood?”

“Understood,” Jones agrees. “And is it just me or could this kid practically be Caffrey’s little brother?”

Neal is quick to put that one to rest. “This kid has _nothing_ to do with me.”

“You sure?” Jones checks. “‘Cause it’s a little uncanny.”

He glares, and Jones backs off.

“Where are these from?” Diana asks pragmatically. “These don’t look like any of ours.”

“Anonymous tip,” Peter says, and there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth that could be either satisfaction or vexation.

That’s… interesting. Neal’s first instinct is to say that it was Robin himself who’d sent in the photo, but that seems very self-sabotaging, even for a Bat.

Even with a photo, there’s only so much they can do for now (and Neal doesn’t want to stop and examine how he feels about that—the fact that they literally _can’t_ do anything for the case also, conveniently, means he doesn’t have to make any difficult decisions—but if he admits that he’s glad for the reprieve, then that’s kind of making the decision, isn’t it?). Once the APB is out, Peter sends Neal out to ‘see if he can get any leads on Alvin’.

Which, translated, means ‘go ask Mozzie to check if any of your criminal friends know anything’.

It’s rather lucky that Mozzie has either never noticed or never actively objected to the fact that he is basically only one degree removed from being an FBI consultant himself.

Well, _Neal’s_ lucky. To have such a good friend who’s willing to go so far against his nature for Neal’s sake.

Even if he is a little too gleeful when he relates the latest word on the street.

“Oh, you're gonna love this. The street is abuzz. Someone is looking for you. No name. He's a kid. Word is he talks _the talk,_ so to speak _the speak_.”

“Did you enjoy that sentence?”

“Yes, I did.”

The idea that _Robin_ would be sloppy enough to ask around in a way that Neal would hear about it is laughable— unless, of course, Robin _wants_ him to know. Neal says as much (well, maybe minus a _few_ pertinent details), and Mozzie frowns a little.

“You think he’s got juice?” he presses, skittering a wide berth around a middle-aged woman in teddy-bear scrubs.

“Oh, I know he’s got juice,” Neal says sourly.

Mozzie’s eyebrows rise over the rims of his glasses. “He with one of the Families?”

_Family_ is a strong word, but… “Something like that.”

Mozzie’s expression tightens and Neal remembers belatedly that Moz has his own history with crime of the Organized variety.

“You know,” Moz says pointedly, “Suspicious, potentially dangerous individuals asking around for you by name— One could take it as a sign that it’s time for us to engage our golden safety chute and sail off into the sunset.”

It’s the same thing Mozzie’s been saying for months, and Neal has always successfully deferred it another day, another few weeks. Always another reason to wait, to hold on just a little longer. One more case. One more beautiful morning.

That being said, there is a part of Neal that wonders if maybe Moz… isn’t wrong.

Because that was the plan, wasn’t it? That was his first thought all those months ago, when he’d first seen the gleaming piles of treasure. Cash in on the score of a lifetime, disappear where not even the World’s Greatest Detective could find him. Leave Peter and Elizabeth and the Team to their lives, become just another distant memory.

Again.

But there’s another part of him that thinks maybe he’s—and god, even after all these years, the pun still makes him cringe—jumping the gun.

Robin _knows._ There is no doubt in his mind. That was genuine, comprehensive recognition on his face last night. He’s asking for Neal by name. He knows.

And yet Neal would bet every penny of the treasure that, for whatever reason, Robin has not yet seen fit to share it with the big man. Sixteen hours is more than enough time for someone with both an official and covert jet at his disposal to make a trip that takes under two hours by car.

And yet the shadows are no deeper than they usually are; there is no flutter of black in the edges of his vision.

Somehow, B must genuinely _not know_ , or else he already would have shown up and dragged Neal back to Gotham to pay for his crimes.

( _unless_ , says an awful little voice, _he doesn’t even think you’re worth the effort_ )

( _he’s probably already forgotten you_ )

The smart course of action probably _would_ be to take the treasure and run, like Mozzie’s been saying since the beginning, but something is holding him back.

It’s just— he doesn’t like the idea of leaving all that kryptonite out there. That’s all. Whatever mission it is that Robin seems to have assigned himself, he’s already leaving a mess behind him. It would be— irresponsible to bail now, before he’s seen this through.

Besides, the treasure isn’t going anywhere. They have time. That’s what he’d told Mozzie— they take their time, and do it _right_.

He makes his decision.

 

* * *

 

The kid’s pretty good, he has to give him that; he doesn’t react at all when Neal falls into step beside him.

“You’re being followed,” he says.

“I know.” The kid doesn’t look around, keeps his face turned ahead and slightly down. He’s lost the blond wig. It seems his idea of ‘civvies’ is dark sunglasses, combed-down hair, and bright red Converse with the laces trailing out behind. “I clocked them four blocks back, by the bodega with that ugly poodle poster. Pretty sure they’re League.”

He’s apparently unconcerned about being stalked by literal ninja assassins. That’s a _great_ sign.

“Your little bald friend’s watching us too,” the kid adds. “400 meters to our 8 o’clock. Is it just me or does he have a periscope?”

“Yes,” Neal confirms without having to look.

“Why?”

Because Neal had specifically asked him to let him handle this _alone_.

(He really should have known better.)

“Heard you were looking for me,” he says instead.

“Yeah.”

“So talk.”

The kid looks at him, unreadable. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

Neal raises a brow. “Why? You got something you don’t want everybody to know?”

They’ve come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing the other foot traffic to divert around them with annoyed grumbles and more than one ‘accidental’ elbow. Good old New York.

“Look,” the kid says. “He doesn’t know, okay? Let’s just get that out of the way. I haven’t told him and I’m not _going_ to, so all of this—” he gestures vaguely and awkwardly between them, “—you don’t have to. Okay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neal bites out, knowing that he’s losing the maturity contest to a sixteen-year-old and not caring.

The kid makes a strangled noise of exasperation deep in his throat. “Look, at the very least can we go somewhere where I don’t have to pretend not to notice that I’m being stalked by _literal ninja assassins?_ Please?”

_Shit_ , Neal thinks, but what he says is, “You ever pulled a Lex Luthor?”

 

* * *

 

“Was the ATM really necessary?” the kid asks, for about the fiftieth time. He’s kept the sunglasses, but he keeps running his hands through his hair so that he’s ruined the neat comb-down and the front has spiked up almost like he’s in costume. “They were only League assassins, I could have taken them.”

Mozzie surreptitiously moves his chair farther down the table. Neal doubts he understood the significance of _League_ assassins’, but the existence of a clandestine organization of assassins would fit nicely into his general worldview.

A stick of a sixteen-year-old casually dismissing the fact that he was being tailed by _multiple assassins?_

Not so much.

“Neal,” he says, his voice a pitch higher than usual, “who is this unsettling child?”

While the kid scowls at being called— well, a kid, Neal rolls his eyes and simply places a glass of wine in front of his friend.

“Mozzie, this is—”

“Alvin Draper,” the kid says just as Neal finishes, “—Our kryptonite thief.”

They look at each other.

“Kryptonite?” Mozzie repeats, eyebrows climbing into his nonexistent hairline. “As in, _the Bane of Superman_ kryptonite? The kryptonite that is _personally regulated_ by the Justice League? That kryptonite?” His eyes dart between them, and when no one refutes it, his nervous tics instantly double.

“Neal,” he hisses in what is probably supposed to be a whisper (Robin politely pretends not to be able to hear him perfectly), “The _Justice League?_ Do you have _any idea_ what kind of resources they have access to? They could throw us in jail on, on the moon— the _moon_ , Neal! Or in another dimension— just for _knowing_ about the,” and he drops his voice another few registers, but not a hint in actual volume, “ _you-know-what_.”

“It’s okay, Moz,” Neal says soothingly. “I promise, it’s just another case with Peter, the League isn’t involved. It’s fine. But yeah, if you could maybe give us a minute.”

Mozzie looks at him, mouth still hanging open, then at Robin, who’s still sitting so prim and innocent, fiddling a little with his hoodie. He closes his mouth.

“Right,” he says, edging toward the door with his wineglass clutched between his hands like a security blanket. “I’ll just— do that. You all just… carry on! I’ll…” His voice trails into inaudibility as he disappears through the front door. Neal has a strong suspicion that June’s formidable wine cellar will soon find itself a few bottles poorer.

Robin’s gaze follows him, mouth a flat line. “He’s a criminal, isn’t he?” and the perfect lack of inflection is just so _B_ that Neal’s temper flares.

“I don’t think either of us are in any place to be throwing stones, _Mr. Draper_ ,” he snaps, and Robin looks momentarily chastened.

“Sorry, I just—” he takes a deep breath. “He won’t tell? You trust him?”

“With my life,” Neal confirms, even as he feels a pang of guilt. It’s true enough, but there’s a reason he hasn’t told Mozzie the whole truth.

He’s imagined coming clean a dozen times—it would require careful preparation, little bits of truth at a time, nothing too unbelievable or overwhelming, all names and identify details carefully left out.

Definitely not just throwing it at him like this, with Robin sitting in his kitchen, absentmindedly chewing on the string of his hoodie.

“You know, if you’re really trying to pretend you’re not actually you, you’re doing a pretty bad job of it,” the kid says.

“That sentence was a trainwreck,” Neal informs him, “and I’m not pretending anything any more than you are.”

“Are you really gonna try and tell me you’re just some random criminal?” Robin demands. “‘Cause random criminals don’t know about the League of Shadows, and they definitely don’t recognize me out of costume.”

“Again,” Neal says, “I’m not telling you anything. You’re the one who’s making all sorts of assumptions.”

“They’re not _assumptions_ ,” Robin says, sounding offended. “I have _evidence_.”

Neal’s heart ticks up a notch, but he keeps his face calm. “Do you.”

“After the explosion, you left your phone with Superboy. I ran your prints and DNA through the Batcomputer. Just to be sure, you know.”

Shit, he’d forgotten the burner. Still, could be worse.

“And?” Neal prompts blandly.

Robin narrows his eyes. “And there was no match. For either sample.”

Good to know he’s still smarter than the average bear. Bat. Bird? Whatever.

He makes a show of straightening his cuffs. “I guess you were wrong then. So much for your _evidence_.”

“I wouldn’t be wrong about this,” the kid says with surprising certainty. “So I ran it one more time against a different sample. Looking for familial relation.”

...Well, damn. Kid is smarter than he thought.

“Guess you forgot to swap out your parents’ samples too, huh, Dick?”

Dick leans back in his chair. “Didn’t forget,” he admits. “Never intended to. _Tim_. Or do you prefer Timothy?”

“Tim’s fine,” says the kid, unperturbed.

“Great. So, Timmy,” he catches the slight grimace and definitely does not mark a point for himself (because against a sixteen-year-old, that would just be petty), “Now that we’ve got all the secret identity bull out of the way, what could you _possibly_ want from me? I’m out of the business— you should know that better than anyone.”

“I know that the FBI is investigating Alvin Draper.”

Dick lets his voice drop another ten degrees in warmth. “If you’re asking me to interfere with a federal investigation—”

“Not exactly.” The kid—Tim—raps his knuckles lightly on the table. “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”

“If you don’t mind,” Dick says, gesturing magnanimously and settling back in his seat for what he’s certain will not be a story he will enjoy.

(He’s right.)

“I guess it all started a couple of months ago,” Tim says, toying with the string of his sweatshirt. “You probably know, the Justice League keeps a close eye on the underground kryptonite trade. Well, about nine weeks ago, GL led a raid on a dealer in Tampa—Florida, not Ohio—and came back with 14kgs of K.”

“Fourteen kilograms?” Dick repeats, not liking where this is heading already.

“Yeah.” Tim’s expression was tight. “B keeps a number of secured warehouses across the country for JL use, so Kyle took it there until it could safely be disposed of.”

_Kyle_ , Dick notes, distantly wondering whatever happened to Hal Jordan. B had always made a show of disapproving of his antics, but Hal hadn’t been a bad guy, from what he remembered.

It’s also interesting to see how blasé Tim is being with the identity of a hero that he _must_ know Dick wouldn’t already know. It doesn’t feel like carelessness. It feels like a test.

_Great_. He hasn’t missed this at all.

“So, load of kryptonite, secure JL warehouse,” he recaps. “How exactly did it get from there to Manhattan?”

Tim flicks the drawstring off his shoulder. “We don’t know.”

“You—” Dick sighs, feeling very old. “You don’t know how someone walked away with 30 pounds of kryptonite.”

“30.86,” the brat corrects. “But long story short: no. Kyle and Zatanna showed up a couple days later, and it was gone. No sign of a break-in or anyone tampering with the system. Whoever took it, they didn’t leave any clues. We waited for it to show up on the black market again, or for someone to launch an attack, but nothing happened. Then, about three weeks ago, I started picking up trace K-isotopes in Carnegie Hill.”

“The first robbery,” Dick states, and Tim nods a confirmation.

“At first I thought it was just an isolated incident— it wasn’t until more pieces started showing up that I connected it to the robbery.”

“And that’s when you went to Professor Tuft,” Dick concludes.

“Yes.” It’s a little disturbing just how sharp the kid is— sharp chin, sharp wit, sharp elbows. He has decent muscle tone—he has to, to do what he does, and Dick knows from experience that he’s certainly even stronger than he looks—but he’s at that stage of post-puberty where he’s approaching maximum height, but his body has not yet registered that means it’s time to start filling _out_. It means he’s all lines and angles, past the point of child-softness.

“So why the grand larceny?” Dick asks lightly. “Kryptonite can be hazardous stuff, sure, but it’s mostly only dangerous with prolonged exposure. Nobody else seems to have noticed that there’s a bunch of loose kryptonite running around. There was no immediate danger. You could have gone through official channels, reclaimed it legally, but you didn’t. Why?”

He has a fairly good suspicion, but he wants to hear the kid confirm it.

Robin gives him a knowing look. “Nobody else seems to have noticed that there’s a bunch of loose kryptonite running around… _yet_. Funny enough, the League aren’t too keen to advertise that someone can crack their security and steal freaking _kryptonite_ right out from under their noses— even SB hasn’t been officially notified, and he’s Kryptonian! Well, half.”

Again, he’s a little bemused that Robin is just… sharing these little, personal details about heroes, like Dick has clearance or _reason_ to know them. So Superboy is only half-Kryptonian? Not really a lot of relevance for their little problem there, so why is Tim telling him?

“Although Clark might’ve given Kon a call,” Tim adds thoughtfully. “If he did, he hasn’t said anything.”

And now they’re back to actual secret identities. Fan _tas_ tic.

He decides to steer the conversation back on topic. “So that’s why you decided on _Alvin Draper: Thief_.”

Robin bobs a nod. “I’ve been looking for the fence who broke the K down and set it. Traced most of the pieces back to a Thomas Carlisle. He’s a person of interest in multiple jewelry heists and black-market sales. He’s not the original thief— I’ve been watching him, and it looks like he has a source. Every few days, he shows up at the office and there’s a new bag full of shards in his safe. I tried watching the building, but it’s too hard to predict when the next delivery will show up. They never showed while I was there, but I don’t know if they knew I was watching or not.”

If that’s true, then it might be the most concerning piece of evidence yet; the number of people with the skills and the training to be able to tell that Robin was watching is low enough— the fact that whoever it is also has the patience _not_ to try and confront him only makes it more worrying.

“But there’s a problem.”

“When isn’t there?” Dick asks rhetorically. “Hit me.”

“The way he’s disposing of it… I don’t think _he_ knows about the kryptonite either.”

“So? That makes it even easier— If he doesn’t know he has kryptonite that was stolen from the Justice League, he’s not going to be going around telling anyone that it’s possible to steal kryptonite from the Justice League. Squeeze him for his source, grab the K, and leave him for the feds. Easy.”

“Yeah, except that he has connections to _Lex Luthor_.”

_Shit._

“He definitely knows what kryptonite _is_ , he’s just never seen any,” Tim says. “But he also knows gems well enough to know they’re not really emeralds. Probably he thinks they’re some new synthetic. But the second anyone connected to the Justice League shows up—”

“—he figures it out, clams up about his source, and as soon as Luthor springs him, becomes the richest kryptonite dealer on the East Coast,” Dick finishes. “Yeah, I can see the problem.”

That _could_ be a problem. Though not, perhaps, as much of one as Tim seems to think it has to be.

The thing is, there’s a simple solution, but it runs counter to every bone in Robin’s interfering little vigilante body.

But first, a few details.

“And the League of Assassins?” Dick prompts, still not entirely clear where _they_ fit into this whole mess. “What’s their angle?”

Tim flushes red and is struck by an entirely unconvincing coughing fit. “Um. Right. Them.”

“ _Right,_ _them_ ,” Dick mimics. “Is Ra’s involved somehow?”

“Not exactly. They’re sort of there to…help me?” Tim winces. “Recently, I, um, sort of accidentally impressed him? And now I think he’s trying to recruit me?”

Dick feels his eyebrows rising. “You impressed Ra’s Al Ghul and now he wants to recruit you,” he says slowly, “by giving you ninjas.”

“Yes?” Tim tugs on the drawstring so that the mouth of his hoodie scrunches up at the back of his neck. “I mean, at first it was just some low-level initiates that he sent to follow me around and spy on me, but I’m pretty sure he knows about the K now, which is obviously _not_ good.”

“He wants to _recruit_ you?” Dick says again, still hung up on that. “You’re sixteen! Plus, I thought he was all obsessed with Bruce?”

Tim shrugs. “I’m pretty sure he’s finally accepting that Bruce is never going to say yes and that having one of his protégés is probably the next best thing. And I _am_ pretty good— he calls me ‘Young Detective’ and everything.”

There’s a hint of defensiveness there, like he really thinks he has to... defend his right to the suit or something. Like he thinks his predecessor of _ten years_ might still ask for it _back_.

In hindsight, that costume was embarrassing enough as a prepubescent; on a grown man, it would be just plain pathetic. And probably a public indecency charge just waiting to happen.

He doesn’t have a problem if the kid wants to run around with his underwear on the outside. That’s his decision. But all the same—

“Ra’s never called _me_ that,” Dick says, inexplicably put out. “He never really even seemed to _notice_ me.”

Robin just looks at him. “Didn’t you once tell him that his face looked like a raisin had a baby with a mongoose?”

“He still remembers that?” Dick asks, flattered.

“No, Bruce told me.”

Oh. He’s… not sure how he feels about that. Bruce still talks about him?

He chooses not to think about that now. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “It’s probably better if the head of a global assassin cult _doesn’t_ remember me.”

Something else occurs to him suddenly, and he asks, “Do you think Ra’s had one of your little friends send that picture to the FBI?”

Robin looks at him sharply. “Picture? What picture?”

“You don’t know?” He absolutely should _not_ feel a flash of self-satisfaction at that— it’s petty and unfair and more than a little wretched of him to even think it, but for all the shit he’s done, he’s always kept The Secret. There are no compromising photos of _him_ floating around (at least, not _that_ kind of compromising).

He forces it down. “Don’t worry; It’s not clear enough to identify _Tim Wayne_ , though it’ll probably give _Alvin_ a few headaches.”

“I kept Drake, actually.” There’s a crease between his brows but his gaze is fixed on the far distance, so Dick thinks it’s probably not offense.

“I guess it _could_ have been Ra’s,” Tim says slowly. “But— I’m not going to say he _wouldn’t_ interfere if he thought it would benefit him, but he’s usually one for playing the long game. I just don’t see what he’d get out of it.”

“That’s why they call it the _long_ game,” Dick points out, but privately he agrees. If it was Ra’s—and he’s not convinced either—then there must be even more going on here than even Robin’s aware of. Some further layer that’s only visible when you look at it through Ra’s special lens of zombie elitist insanity.

Which is about as far from comforting as you can get, but they can work with it for now.

_(and when exactly did he decide that there was a ‘they’?)_

But first, they need a plan. No— a Plan. Full capitalization and all.

Something… bold. Decisive. Maybe something with just a hint of common sense, although he knows that will be asking a lot of two Bat-trained (current and former) vigilantes.

He’s just opening his mouth to say as much when there’s the sound of voices—footsteps—on the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tim. He’s caught the Dramas. Can’t just show up and ask nicely for the kryptonite back, nope. That’d be way too easy. Need more Dramas. Although, really, Neal/Dick is not one to talk. So many Dramas.
> 
> It’s very interesting (to me, at least) to think about how Tim would react to finally meeting Dick Grayson in this universe. There was no Big Brother Nightwing to help support and guide him. And Tim definitely has a tendency towards hero worship. Without years of living together and seeing all his many faults and foibles first-hand to humanize him, Dick would still be a larger-than-life figure (not unlike Jason was before he came back to life). But Tim’s also not an idiot— as soon as he hears the name Neal Caffrey, he’s going to do his research. So the whole criminal record thing is it’s own layer of complicated.
> 
> And even more unfortunately, even though Neal/Dick is very good at reading people, he doesn’t know Tim well enough to really understand what’s going on in his head. And so far, he’s our only source of info.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews, you guys are so awesome! Will do my best to keep semi-regular updates, but everything is still pretty busy, so it might be a week, might be two. Hope you stick around!
> 
> Next time:   
> Best laid plans, these are not. But at least there is a plan— that’s a start, right?


	9. Gang Aft Agley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best laid plans, these are not. But at least there is a plan— that’s a start, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men  
>           Gang aft agley  
> —Robert Burns, _To A Mouse_

_Then:_

He hadn’t really wanted to know the extent of the damage, after. Not laid out like that, so clinical. So… flat. He’d lived it, after all. He was still living it with every painful breath. He didn’t need to hear his list of broken parts.

But when Doctor Leslie started reading it out, explaining it, with her best bedside manner, he didn’t know how to tell her to stop.

Broken ribs. Shattered ulna. Two-part fracture just above the joint of the elbow. Ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, severe damage to internal organs. Fractured skull.

He could see every time she started to get angry again and forced herself calm.

“Batman caught him, though, right?” Dick had asked, partly to reassure her and partly for confirmation. “Two-Face is in prison now?”

Leslie hesitated, not meeting his eyes. “He hasn’t talked to you about this?”

“No.” He hadn’t seen his ‘partner’ _once_ since he’d woken up in his own bed at the Manor.

(Well, except— he’d woken in the middle of the night, once, and there had been something: a shadow. A presence, even. Heavy, but in a good way. Like the soft space under a dark cape. Or a guiding hand at the back of his neck. It had been Him, he’d been sure of it. But he’d been on the good drugs still, and his eyes had been so very heavy, and he’d only meant to blink but when he opened his eyes again, the shape was gone and Alfred was knocking with the breakfast tray.)

But if Two-Face was still on the loose, then maybe that explained it— he wasn’t… he wasn’t _avoiding_ Dick, he was just busy. Two-Face was dangerous. Dick could understand that. The mission came first.

Leslie sighed and took off her glasses. “That— No, never mind. Yes, Dick, Dent is in custody. You’re safe.”

That should have been reassuring, but Dick found himself wanting to reject it.

“But— Batman—” He instinctively tried to sit up just a little, which was a major mistake. The pain was so bad that it made him gag, which was _worse_.

Leslie eased him back down, rubbing his uninjured shoulder until the spasms subsided. Conversation was pretty much abandoned after that.

The worst part of healing wasn’t the pain, though. It was the emptiness.

Even when he was little, when he was upset he’d always filled that void with moving, with doing. With people.

Now, he could barely twitch his fingers without pain, and he was alone. No visitors— after all, if anyone were to find out that Dick Grayson was mysteriously injured at the same time as Robin the Boy Wonder, it could put The Secret at risk.

(And if he wished, sometimes, for Clark or Diana— well, that would be awfully selfish of him, wouldn’t it? There were so many people who needed them, and he was already safe and recovering. There were better uses for their time.)

Alfred and Leslie did their best to keep him company, but they both had other duties. _He_ didn’t visit.

Until he did.

 

* * *

 

_Now:_

There’s the sound of voices—footsteps—on the stairs, and they both freeze.

Dick can think of at least half a dozen different people who might have decided to drop in without warning, ranging from the mildly inconvenient to the absolutely disastrous.

These particular steps are two-part—heel, toe, heel, toe—the sharp clack of stilettos, which narrows the list dramatically. Not necessarily for the better, but. He’s pretty sure he knows what to expect here.

“Oh, _Sara!_ ” Mozzie says loudly from somewhere outside the door. “What a completely unexpected surprise!”

“Nice to see you too, Mozzie.” As usual, when faced with Mozzie’s many eccentricities, Sara sounds cooly nonplussed. “Can I get in?”

“In?” Mozzie shrills. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

“Because you’re blocking the door, Mozzie,” Sara says patiently.

There’s the sounds of shuffling and Dick distinctly hears a yelp that he recognizes as someone getting on the wrong side of Sara’s very spiky heels.

Quick as a snake shedding its skin, he lets the mask fall back and it’s Neal Caffrey blinking away the late morning sun where it slants through the balcony doors.

Tim glances at him questioningly, his sunglasses having magically reappeared on his face, and Neal flicks his fingers in a silent _go with it_.

Even though she’d probably smack him for saying it, every time he sees Sara he’s struck all over again by how lucky he is; she is, without a doubt, one of the most remarkable women he’s ever met. She’s sophisticated but tough as nails, the perfect contrast of smooth planes and sharp angles. Every day she challenges him anew.

And she certainly doesn’t take his bullshit.

She gives Tim one glance and stops dead in the doorway. “Okay,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. “Who wants to tell me what’s going on here.”

“Sara, I’d like you to meet— Alvin,” Neal says, only stumbling slightly on the name. “He stole about $70,000 worth of radioactive jewels from some very bad people and made the FBI look like idiots, so he’s laying low here for a little while.”

Sara’s hands stay at her waist. “Of _course_ he did,” she says sardonically. “So now we’re hiding wanted felons in the apartment?”

“Well, it wouldn’t exactly be the first time,” Neal says, shrugging. “But anyways, um, _Alvin_ , this is Sara Ellis. My girlfriend.” He feels himself flushing slightly, still amazed that he can say that and _get away with it._

“Nice to meet you,” Tim says, rising to shake her hand with a perfect, polished socialite’s smile. Neal seems to recall that the Drakes were Gotham upper-crust as well. He might even have met them once or twice, at one of the innumerable galas that Bruce was obliged to hold and attend. He doesn’t ever remembering seeing a little Tim trailing along behind, or hovering by the snack table, but maybe he’d been too young or something.

Sara shakes his hand automatically, then turns on Neal with a smile that he knows means trouble.

“Does Peter know about this?” she demands.

“Not exactly,” he admits, and then rushes on before she can interrupt. “Look, Ti— Alvin got himself in a little bit of trouble. We’re trying to get him out of it. That’s all.”

“We are?” Mozzie queries dubiously from the stairway.

“Yes. We _are_.” He turns to Sara with his most pleading expression. “Will you help?”

She stares at him, perfectly manicured fingernails drumming across the taut leather of her purse.

“I’m going to need,” Sara says, “a little bit more explanation than that.”

 

* * *

 

_Then:_

He thought that conversation would stay with him until the day he died.

_This was all a terrible error in judgement._

_You’re fired._

_Robin’s finished._

_You disobeyed a direct order! An innocent man is dead and you were nearly killed!_

_It’s over, Dick._

He was empty in a whole new way after that. Empty of hope.

Because that’s what Robin was to him— Hope. Hope for the people he saved, but also for himself. Hope that he could help people. That he could make a difference. Hope that he could be needed. Hope that he could be wanted.

Without that flame, it was a cold convalescence.

 

* * *

 

_Now:_

The version of the truth that they end up giving Sara—and, in regards to a lot of the details, Mozzie as well—is significantly abridged and leaves out an awful lots of the _whos_ and _hows_ and _whys_ , but is not, actually, untrue. So that’s one point in favor of domestic honesty. And the details they’d left out aren’t necessary, really, when it comes to what they have to do now.

It’s interesting; for someone who calls himself Robin, Tim is surprisingly amenable to letting Neal take the lead in explanations. Could be that he doesn’t trust himself not to slip up (unlikely), or that he wants to see how much Neal is willing to entrust his associates with (another test), or perhaps a gesture of goodwill, proof that he’s willing to follow Neal’s lead (which is a test all its own).

Jeez. Less than an hour, and he’s already feeling as paranoid as Mozzie.

Sara swirls the last of her wine thoughtfully, but replaces it on the table without actually taking a sip. “So, this Carlisle guy— we need him to flip on his kryptonite supplier, but he can’t know that _you’re_ involved,” with a nod towards Tim, “or that it’s actually kryptonite.”

That had been one of the _whys_ they’d elided; Sara had accepted the Lex Luthor connection with few questions (hard not to, with the number of times that his latest supervillain scheme had been plastered across the front page of _The Daily Planet_ — thank you, Lois Lane), and it wasn’t that far of a leap to believe that if Luthor found out about a skilled thief in possession of a large amount of kryptonite and with the knowledge to track down even more, said thief’s life would be in significant danger.

“A worthy challenge,” Mozzie crows, rubbing his hands together. Now that they’re all planning felonies together, he seems to have lost his instinctive criminal fear of all things JL-adjacent.

“Great,” Sara says flatly. “Someone remind me why we can’t just _tell_ Peter all of this?”

Neal is about to answer when Tim speaks up.

“Because I stole the kryptonite,” he says simply. “It’s gone, and so is any evidence. Even if your Agent Burke believes us, what can he arrest him for?”

Sara glances at Neal almost imperceptibly _(almost)_ before replying. “Peter will believe us.”

“Doesn’t solve the problem,” Tim says, and Neal can see the gears in his mind turning. Planning.

That’s only going to lead to trouble.

So Neal smiles. “Sure we do,” he says. “It’s simple. All we have to do is make sure that Peter finds the kryptonite.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Tim says, frowning. “He doesn’t _have_ the kryptonite!”

“But you do.”

He can see the exact moment that it all clicks together in Robin’s head.

“That’s planting evidence,” Tim says flatly.

“Returning it,” Neal corrects cheerfully, and somehow isn’t surprised when the semantic difference fails to appease him. “Really, it’ll be like you never stole it at all!”

“That’s—” Robin looks like he can’t even decide what words could possibly be appropriate. “That doesn’t—”

Neal smiles brighter as he watches Robin struggle for an objection other than _that’s illegal_.

He knows exactly what the kid’s thinking; the same training that birthed this Robin birthed two before him. The Bat might not any respect for search and seizure laws, or coerced confessions, but he would _never_ have countenanced planting evidence.

He watches the kid carefully, smile never wavering. If any part of this is an act, he wants to know now.

(And if he really _is_ the perfect obedient partner that B had always wanted— this, this is where it would show. And he wants to know that too.)

But Robin just— breathes for a moment, the string of the hoodie wrapped tight enough around his finger that the flesh is white.

There are a million thoughts going inside that head, Neal’s _sure_ of it, but he can’t read them.

And then Tim drops his head a little and lets the string go slack.

“I… Most of the kryptonite is out of reach,” he says. “Somewhere safe. But I still have the plates from Chad Stewart. I stashed them with a friend before I went to meet you. Just, you know. In case.”

It’s a peace offering. There’s a tightness to his shoulders that tells Neal he’s not… _happy_ about the plan, but he’s trusting them.

(Trusting _him_.)

Neal lets himself soften a little bit. “Think of it as a gray area,” he says quietly, aware as ever of Sara and Mozzie listening. “This isn’t exactly a normal case for us either.”

 _I understand_ , he means. And: _I’m trusting you, too._

Tim doesn’t smile, exactly, but his head tilts in the subtlest of nods.

Neal catches Sara’s eye and raises an eyebrow. _Are you in?_

In answer, she slips her hand into his.

Neal lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Alright,” he says. “So how do we do this?”

 

* * *

 

_Then:_

It takes a very special kind of woman to juggle a high-stakes career and a relationship with a man whose mask is more real than his face.

Especially when that career is as a world-class cat burglar and that man is probably the most inflexible vigilante known to man.

Selina Kyle, though, managed to pull it off with style.

Dick had always been pretty ambivalent towards her. The whole Batman-Catwoman relationship fluctuated between awkward and annoying (he couldn’t count how many times he’d been sent to go wait in the car while Batman, ahem, _collected evidence_ ), but it felt even stranger to be interacting with Selina the civilian.

She wasn’t like most of the other women that passed through the Manor— she lasted more than a couple of days, for one. And for another, she actually knew The Secret, so he didn’t need to worry nearly as much about keeping up appearances.

They didn’t really interact much on either side of their lives, but when they did, she was nice enough, he guessed. Asked about his school, his acrobatics. Smirked at his lame jokes. Even tried to give him a kitten, once, although B had nixed that one before it happened.

Still, to say that he was surprised when, on the dawn of his second week of bed rest, Selina appeared in his doorway in one of her slinky dresses, arms full of shopping bags, would be an understatement.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said, breezing in without bothering to wait for permission. “Wow, you look like crap.”

That was one of the things he did like about Selina— she didn’t treat him differently just because he was a kid.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he said, knowing that it was a lie, and a stupid one too. Selina could see the mountains of bandages and the plaster and the half-drained IV stand as well as he could. Better, probably, seeing as he could barely sit up by himself. But maybe— maybe if he said it enough, it would _make_ it true. And then he could prove to B that he could still carry out the Mission, that he could still be Robin, that he could be _better_.

And he could. He could be better. As soon as he was healed enough, he could start proving it. And then B would change his mind, he was sure of it.

“Mhm,” Selina said, not even bothering with skepticism. “Here, I have something for you.”

“Is it stolen?” he asked dubiously, even as he painfully began to scootch into an upright position. Selina helped him without a word, her hands gentle but strong. He appreciated that she didn’t feel the need to make a big deal out of it.

“You boys,” she sniffed, smoothing the sheets around his waist with a surprisingly practiced hand, “So picky. You know, the polite thing to do when someone gives you a gift is to say _thank you_.”

Dick pouted at her, eyes big as he could make them. He knew how pathetic he must look.

Selina wasn’t impressed.

“Here,” she said, plucking one of the bags off the floor and settling it in his lap. “And before you get your shorts in a twist, it’s all legally bought and paid for with my hard-earned money.”

Money which she’d probably stolen, but whatever. He wasn’t exactly in the vigilante business at the moment, so it wasn’t _his_ problem.

Still, he looked in the bag with some trepidation. She was—sort of—a criminal, and even though Dick didn’t think she’d hurt him, she was also kind of really weird sometimes.

But in the bag, all he found was—

“Paper?” he said questioningly, pulling out the… drawing pad? It was pretty high quality, the kind of paper that even _felt_ fancy under his fingers.

“Pencils, too.” Selina had her chin propped on one hand, green eyes practically glowing in the light from the half-open window. “And some charcoals, but I wouldn’t recommend using those in bed. They can get pretty messy, and I don’t think Alfred would appreciate charcoals ground into his nice clean bedsheets.”

The mention of Alfred reminded him— He really _did_ have manners, so he said, “Thanks, Selina, this is really nice. But, um… why?”

Selina shrugged. “Thought you could use a distraction. I’ve been laid up before. Wasn’t much fun. Drawing helped me take my mind off of it for a little while.”

“Thanks,” Dick said again and forced himself to smile. It was strange— he’d spent so long wishing for just a little company, and now that Selina was here, he kind of just wanted her to go away. But he thought that was pretty ungrateful after she’d brought him a present and everything.

Luckily, she seemed to sense that he wasreaching the end of his energy, and she just smiled and stood gracefully. “I’ll let you sleep,” she said “Feel better, Tweety.”

(Or maybe it was ‘Sweetie’— with Selina, it could have been either.)

Before she left, she helped him lie back down. He tucked the pad into the shelf of his nightstand and let her help him tuck the blankets back down around him. It was awkward, but— nice. His mom used to do that for him when he was sick.

Not that Selina was his _mom_. Or, you know, anything like that.

Before she left, she drew her fingers through his hair once, lightly, more like he was one of her cats than anything else. Dick’s eyes burned and he immediately regretted wanting her to leave.

But she was already gone.

 

* * *

 

_Now:_

By the second hour of Mozzie and Tim arguing yet another obscure point of the security system (or rather, Mozzie arguing while Tim listens intently and occasionally asks a question that, while not outright challenging, sends Mozzie down a whole new path of diatribe. Neal hasn’t yet decided whether Tim is subtly fishing for information or just being a brat), Neal needs a break. He excuses himself quietly and slips into the kitchen while the two of them are distracted discussing redundant security loops.

He’s gratified but not surprised when Sara follows.

“So,” she starts, leaning against the counter as he rummages through the refrigerator for a bottle of water (if he’s ever needed his wits about him, it’s now). “Kryptonite.” Her tone says it all.

“Kryptonite,” Neal agrees, a little rueful.

“I thought you were working on a gem case?” Sara says and it’s pointed, but Neal doesn’t take offense. Trust is something they’re working on and, today of all days, he’d be the worst kind of hypocrite if he begrudged her that.

“We were,” he admits, “and then things got— complicated. Look, Sara, this is all really hush-hush, okay? Peter had to pull a lot of strings just to keep the case from being taken over by black book secret task force.”

Sara bites her lip as she glances back out at the balcony, where Tim and Mozzie are still arguing intently. At some point, Tim had migrated from sitting in the chair like a normal person to kneeling on the seat, sneakers poking out the back slat, all his weight on his elbows where he’s leaning over the small collection of maps and diagrams Mozzie has acquired. He’s still wearing his sunglasses (neither Moz nor Sara have commented) and that ratty, oversized hoodie, and all together, it makes him look… like a kid.

Well, he _is_ a kid. Which, on some level, Neal knows. It’s just strange to think about, knowing what Neal does about his extracurriculars.

He remembers—was it really only a few months ago?—seeing Superboy and thinking how very young sixteen really was. Biologically speaking, Tim is probably even a few months younger than Superboy had appeared. And yet it’s hard to picture him that way. Robin is a kid, yes, but he’s also so much… more.

Sara doesn’t know that. All she sees is a kid who’s barely shaving (if at all) and who is already being hunted by cops and criminals and shady government organizations.

“This plan…” she murmurs.

“It will work,” Neal says certainly.

“And after?” Sara turns those keen green eyes on him.

“Carlisle will go away for a long, long time,” he tells her. “And if everything goes according to plan, so will his supplier.”

Sara huffs out. “And, what, Alvin just walks away? Goes back to stealing kryptonite?”

“Chad had the last of the kryptonite that Carlisle has already sold,” Neal says, deliberately misunderstanding. “As soon as we have that supplier, it should be off the street for good.”

Her eyes narrow. “ _Neal._ ”

He winces. “Sara…”

“You have to convince him to turn himself in.”

Talk about worst-case scenario. “ _That’s_ not going to happen.”

The beginnings of a frown stretch across Sara’s face, and Neal hurries on, “Look, Sara, I know he didn’t exactly go about it the— _legal_ way, but he was trying to help people. That has to count for something, right?”

Sara throws up her hands. “It doesn’t work like that! He’s not some sort of— of _vigilante_ —”

Oh, if only she knew.

“—and neither are you! Just— what do you think Peter would say?”

Neal can imagine all too well. But that’s not the point. “Sara, I can _promise_ you, there’s no way he’d ever turn himself in for this.”

She opens her mouth then closes it again, leaning back against the counter. “Look,” she says finally, leaning back against the counter. “I get it. He’s just a kid and he’s in trouble and he came to _you_ for help. You don’t want to turn him in. Neal, I _get_ it. But that’s exactly why you’ve got to talk to him. This is _dangerous_ , Neal. _You_ know that.”

Neal looks away. She doesn’t— She can’t know how close to home her words are hitting. Or— no, she does, but not the _why_.

She’s earnest and impassioned and far too good for him when she says, “This is your chance to show him there's another way.”

He swallows through the blockage in his throat, presses his foot back against the front of the counter until he can feel the edges of the ankle digging painfully into his skin. “Well,” he says quietly, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I'm not exactly a role model.”

Sara steps in close, lays a hand against his chest, and he bows his head in near enough to breath in the spicy-smooth scent of her perfume.

“You're probably the closest thing he has.”

 

* * *

 

_Then:_

Doctor Leslie said the most important things he needed to heal were time, and rest.

Time, he had plenty of— too much of, the days stretching out before him with no light at the end of the tunnel. Even once he’d been cleared to move around on his own (slowly, painfully, leaning on walls and, whenever he had the time, Alfred), he tired easily. Most of his days were still spent in bed, or walking slow, repetitive circles around the upper east wing.

He didn’t see B, and he couldn’t bear to ask Alfred.

So it was just him, and all the empty, empty time.

Rest was harder to come by.

The nightmares were back, worse than they’d been since those first few awful months after his parents died.

Only this time, it wasn’t his parents lying broken and bloody on the ground.

It was him.

_(Not Good Enough.)_

It was the judge, drowning instead of hanging because of _his_ stupid gamble.

_(Not Good Enough.)_

It was Two-Face, raising the blood-speckled bat for the final blow.

_(Not Good Enough.)_

It was all the villains, the killers, all their worst foes, laughing over his grave as soil rained down in his face, his eyes, down his throat, and he choked himself awake.

_(NOT GOOD ENOUGH!)_

A few nights after Selina’s unexpected visit, he woke up gasping, his sleep shirt soaked through with cold sweat.

He reached clumsily for his nightstand, for the glass of water that Alfred had left for him, but before he could find it, his hand bumped against the top corner of the sketchbook where it stuck out a bit.

He managed to find the switch for the lamp, and then, the water. When he’d washed the taste of grave dirt out of his mouth, he’d replaced the glass but hesitated before he turned off the light again.

He didn’t really want to try sleeping again. And it would be rude, wouldn’t it, if Selina came to visit again and he hadn’t even touched her presents?

Carefully, he maneuvered the pad and the box of pencils (not the charcoals, he didn’t want to risk Alfred’s disapproving face) up and into the bed. Sitting up enough to get a good angle was a bigger challenge, but he managed it with some painful wriggling.

Luckily, the box of pencils were the pre-sharpened kind. It was only once he pressed the tip of the lead against the thick paper that he realized he had no idea what he was doing.

He actually did know how to draw; Batman had made sure of that. Being able to accurately recreate scenes—and faces—was an indispensable skill for a detective. But those had been lessons in observation and reproduction. They’d been about replicating exactly what he saw, and _only_ what he saw. Just the facts, not his feelings or interpretations. It had been a surprisingly difficult skill to learn.

But now, with pure white terrain stretched out across his lap, he had no idea where to start.

He casted around for inspiration, and his eyes fell on the framed painting that had hung on the far wall since long before he moved into the Manor. Heck, it had probably been there longer than _Alfred_.

It was nothing too special, just a portrait of some lady in an old-fashioned dress reading a book at a table. It couldn’t have been anything too interesting either, because she looked just about as exhausted as he felt.

He approached it like another crime scene; he traced every line, every detail, let himself unfocus to see the full picture.

His technical skill was fantastic for someone his age (hand-eye coordination is a definite must for a vigilante who jumps off _literal_ rooftops), but when he looked at the finished product, it wasn’t quite… right, somehow. There was the woman, the book, the table, but looking at it, he felt… nothing. It was missing something.

Frustrated, he flipped to the next page, nearly tearing it in the process. He licked the pencil (a habit that he’d picked up from Alfred that even he thought was pretty gross but couldn’t seem to stop) and began again.

The second attempt was no better than the first.

By the third, he’d got the proportions worked out a little better so that her hand no longer seemed to be as big as her head.

By the fourth, he’d started experimenting with holding the pencil at different angles, scraping the flat of the lead against the paper rather than the tip to better mimic the texture of the original oil paints. That one was admittedly messier on the actual shapes and lines, but he was still pleased with it.

He fell asleep halfway through the fifth and, for once, the nightmares stayed away.

 

* * *

 

_Now:_

For all that Tim is clearly still not entirely comfortable with the plan, he offers useful suggestions. More than once, they’re exactly the same suggestions that Neal himself would have made.

Which is disconcerting, but. Makes sense. They’re products of the same training.

Well, not exactly the same; clearly, Tim’s training has had a much heavier focus on the computer sciences and cutting-edge technology, whereas Dick’s had a lot more… somersaults.

Tim is also pretty clearly a prodigy in more than a few fields but, Neal notices with some amusement, he is also _very clearly_ a sixteen-year-old boy.

This is made especially clear when Sara suggests a rather… _unorthodox_ ploy to get security to let her up to Carlisle’s office and Tim is suddenly unable to look her in the eye without turning a rather distinct shade of red. It’s actually kind of adorable how embarrassed he is, especially since Neal knows for a fact that Tim would have met actual hookers before.

He also seems consistently more amused than offended by Mozzie’s antics, which have been thankfully restrained thus far.

They actually have a decent outline of a plan when Neal’s phone rings. He glances at the screen.

“It’s Peter,” he says. “My handler.” Like Tim—or rather, _Alvin_ —didn’t already know that.

The others fall silent as he answers the call. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Peter says, like in the age of caller ID, Neal genuinely might not have known who was calling. “I need you in the office. We’ve got a lead.”

“A lead?” Neal says, giving the others a warning glance. “On Draper?”

“Not exactly,” Peter says. “One of the jewelers broke— told us where they got the K in the first place. You ever heard the name Thomas Carlisle before?”

“Thomas Carlisle?” Neal repeats for the others’ benefit. “No, doesn’t sound familiar. Who is he?”

“I’ll brief you when you get here,” Peter promises. “Unless— You got anything? Any word on the street where Alvin might be?”

Neal looks Tim in the face and the little shit actually quirks an eyebrow at him.

“No,” he says evenly. “The streets don't seem to know where he's disappeared to.”

Peter grunts. “Alright. Have Mozzie keep his ears open. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Neal agrees, and listens to the click as Peter hangs up before turning to the others.

“Well,” he says. “Sounds like we just got our first step towards probable cause. I’ve got to go into the office. You guys okay to keep working till I get back?”

Tim and Mozzie scoff in unison, and Sara rolls her eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on them,” she says dryly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Go.”

He gives himself just a second to savor it, and then he reaches for his hat and flips it onto his head.

“I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he says, and then, only half joking, “Don’t commit any crimes without me.”

Sara’s flick over to the table and then back to him. “With these two? Better hurry.”

 

* * *

 

_Then:_

He really couldn’t explain, if asked, why he hid the sketchpad from everyone.

(Even if in this case, ‘everyone’ was just Alfred and Leslie.)

But he did.

He’d figured out years ago that there was just enough space between the underside of his nightstand’s drawer and the frame beneath where something flat and thin could be hidden.

For a while, he’d used it as a place to hide the thing that was the most valuable to him—his prized Flying Graysons poster, the only thing he really had left of his parents and his home—but as he’d grown more comfortable in the Manor, he’d consented to have Alfred hang it up where he could see it every day.

Now, its hiding place was occupied by the rapidly-filling sketch book.

It wasn’t just the bored lady anymore either; as his mobility slowly started to return, he branched out, wandering the long-disused wings until he found some family heirloom that caught his eye.

He tried drawing from life a few times, too; the view out of his window, Alfred, his own face in the mirror, but there was still that feeling of _not right_ -ness.

He’d thought that his interest would wane as he moved further into recovery and Leslie finally okayed him to start physical therapy, but it didn’t; he spent his days pushing (punishing) himself physically and his nights soothing down the rough edges with soothing strokes of charcoal on paper (Selina was right, they were much more messy, but he kind of liked that. It made the edges feel softer, mistakes less glaring.)

As for Selina, her second visit was just as unexpected as her first.

It had been ages (literally ages, his fourteenth birthday had passed with little fanfare, though Alfred had done his best to make it a pleasant occasion) since she first dropped off the supplies when she reappeared in the Manor, this time in a large floppy hat and wrap-around sundress, with strappy heels and large dark sunglasses that reminded him a lot of her ‘work’ goggles.

“Hey, bird boy,” she said (he didn’t flinch). “You’re looking a lot better.”

“Thanks,” he said shortly. He felt like talking less and less these days, like the more his body healed, the more his throat closed up.

She leans in, peering at him through those ridiculous sunglasses. “Big Bad Bat still brooding?” she asked knowingly.

This time, Dick did flinch. He didn’t want to talk about— _Him_.

He cast around quickly for something to change the subject. “Thanks again for the paper and stuff,” he mumbled. “It was really nice.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow and let the other thing— _Him_ —slide. “Glad to hear you liked it. Do I get to see any of your work, or is it secret?”

Dick hesitated, but—if there was anyone who had a right to ask, it would be her, wouldn’t it? And—not that it really _mattered_ , or anything, but—she wouldn’t tell either. That wasn’t the kind of person she was.

So he said, “Sure. Wait here,” and ran (actually ran, and how good it was to be able to do that again!) up to grab the sketchpad from its hiding place.

Selina was silent at first, flipping through, which was—well, it was stupid, he didn’t really care what people thought, he was only doing it to distract himself anyways, but it was kind of—nerve-wracking. Some part of him wanted to snatch the pad back, tell her that it was stupid, that it was just scribbles anyways, but she looked up before he could with a strange expression on her face.

“Dick, this is beautiful,” she said, and it was flat, with none of her usual sly affectation. “Did you do this freehand?”

Dick squirmed a little under her gaze. “Um, not exactly,” he muttered. “I usually, um, look at, like, some of the old paintings and stuff around here and just copy those. So, you know.”

“You’re very talented,” Selina told him, her fingers hovering gently above the bored woman’s face (eighth attempt, and he’d finally gotten her face just right), and it actually sounded genuine, which was— weird. It made him feel weird inside, kind of all squiggly.

After a moment, Selina closed the book and went to hand it back, but he suddenly found that he didn’t want that.

“No,” he said, thrusting the sketchpad back at her roughly. “You should keep it.”

Selina looked surprised and for a second, he thought she was going to reject it, but then her fingers closed around the pad carefully, as if it was something fragile and precious.

“Thank you, Dick,” she said softly and then, suddenly, Catwoman was back, sultry and mischievous. “You know, if you ever decide that a six-figure allowance isn’t big enough, I know a few people who would pay quite a lot for such lovely, ah… _copies_ of their favorite works.” She winked at him so outrageously that he couldn’t help but laugh a little, rough and out-of-practice.

Robin—or former Robin, in any case—as a full-on criminal? A petty forger at that?

Like _that_ would ever happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, the Notre Dame de Paris, I literally want to cry! It’s so absolutely horrible. I was lucky enough to get to see it when I was younger, and even if it won’t ever be the same, I hope so much that they rebuild. 
> 
> In any case.
> 
> This was supposed to come out over the weekend, but that… didn’t happen. Still, I figure now is better than waiting a whole ‘nother week. Next chapter has a good chunk done in the middle, but very little on the edges, so we’ll see when that gets finished. On a positive note, I have a big chunk of free time at the beginning of May where hopefully the next sort-of arc can get decently planned out and I can at least get the body of the next few chapters.
> 
> Neal-as-Dick is so interesting to me, not the least because of all the different people who contributed to his development. We’ve talked a little about the influence of Bat-training, about the influence of Mister Mild-Mannered-Reporter, but there is literally _no way_ that Selina Kyle was not also a strong influence on his criminal formation.
> 
> The painting that I was thinking of for young Dick to be copying over an over again was this one: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Young_Girl_Reading_by_Jean-Baptiste-Camille_Corot_c1868.jpg
> 
> Recognizable quotes are from White Collar episode 'Scott Free' and _Robin: Year One._ Also, it is _incredibly difficult_ to switch back and forth between tenses, so please excuse any inconsistent past/present.
> 
> Next time:  
> A look at life on the other end of the leash.


	10. Handles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at life on the other end of the leash.

He knew the deal was a bad idea from the moment Caffrey proposed it. It was tempting in all the worst ways, the kind of ways that risked him falling back on… call them old habits.

From the time when he was a little boy, Peter Burke has always loved puzzles.

Back when he was just a wet-behind-the-ears probie in the DC Art Crimes Unit, the other agents had teased him a little for being so serious, so obsessive, so engrossed in each new mystery that crossed his desk.

They’d even had a nickname for him:

_The Archeologist_.

It had been more than a little embarrassing, but it wasn’t exactly inaccurate. That was who he was. Still is. Someone who’d dig, dig, _dig_ for the truth.

The nickname didn’t follow him to New York (which he was grateful for), but the obsessiveness did. He’d started as a junior agent, highly-recommended but still relatively untested. Within only a few short months, he had already begun to build a reputation as a cool head under fire, a skilled undercover agent, and, above all, a keen mind for making connections in seconds that would take more senior agents weeks or months. By the end of his second year in New York, he’d lost the _junior_ in front of _agent_. By the end of his third, he was running lead on cases (nothing high-profile, but still).

And then—by chance or by fate—one day a seemingly innocuous bond forgery case was pretty much dropped in his lap, setting in motion a chain of events that would lead to things that _Peter Burke, The Archaeologist_ never could have expected.

At first, it really was just another case; the forger was surprisingly skilled, and Peter would be the first to admit that it was more luck than police work that the forgeries had been noticed in the first place, but otherwise the investigation was very straightforward. He canvassed the banks where the bonds had been redeemed, talked to the tellers, and collected the security footage. Not much luck there, so he expanded his canvassing, went for the banks that their forger _hadn’t_ hit yet, but that fit the criteria.

He was just walking out after another swing and miss when a handsome, smiling young man with dark hair and that perfect guilelessness in his brilliant blue eyes stopped him on the sidewalk.

Agent Peter Burke walked away from that conversation with a sucker and a feeling that he couldn’t quite put into words.

It would take him another year to put a name—any name, no matter how fake—to the face, but that was where it really all began. On a sunny New York sidewalk with a smile and a sucker (and in addition to that, some candy on a stick).

That was where it began, and it would continue over half a decade, through heists and capers, cons and stakeouts, chases and aliases. It would continue over thousands of man-hours, over piles of records and boxes of inconclusive evidence.

It would even continue through that one last sting, through the arrest and interrogation. Through the trial. Through the sentencing.

For any other case, it would have ended there. _Should_ have ended there. The perp was put away, justice was done, Agent Burke’s role was finished.

But he’d spent so long in that mindset, hunting Neal Caffrey, the One Who Got Away, that it was hard to turn it off. He’d show up at a crime scene and find himself wondering how Caffrey would have done it, if he’d been there. Or he’d hear about some painting that had vanished from a gallery and catch himself automatically reaching for the most recently updated Caffrey file.

The file that wasn’t there anymore, because that case was _closed._

Caffrey’s wasn’t the first case that got under his skin, and it certainly wasn’t the last, but it was the one that dug its claws in the deepest; why, Peter couldn’t entirely say, even now. Maybe it had been his age, just a little bit, in the beginning. Maybe it was the wasted potential Peter still sees every time he looks at this brilliant, creative man that he’d knowingly sent to waste away in the suffocating mundanity of prison. Maybe it _was_ some pseudo-paternal instinct, something to do with the way that such a confident, self-assured individual could still be so clearly longing for approval.

Or maybe it was more to do with Peter himself, with the way that he’d never met someone who challenged him so constantly, who matched him wit for wit without breaking stride. Maybe it’s because no matter how old he gets, Peter Burke will still always love a good puzzle.

And Neal Caffrey is a puzzle that he may never fully solve.

In all those years of chasing and searching, there were some blanks that were never filled. Not even a hint.

His past, for one, was an untouchable void.

No hint of where he came from, not a single detail of his life before the age of 18, as if Neal Caffrey had sprung fully-formed into the world of crime and confidence schemes. No whisper of any family, or how such a brilliant kid could have ended up on such an illegal path.

(No clue as to how he’d gotten the scars that he hides under suits and silks.)

He’d resigned himself to the mystery, to never having the answers. To leaving the puzzle unsolved, no matter how it pained him.

He’d put away the file and spent almost four years thinking about it only rarely. He’d moved on to other mysteries, other cases, and done his best to put Neal Caffrey behind him.

And then this.

The universe has a hell of a sense of humor sometimes.

For those first few hours—maybe even the first full day—there had been a window where he’d really believed his own insistence that it would all be perfectly professional, your standard handler-CI relationship.

Well.

Thinking back on it now, it makes him want to chuckle a little, wryly.

When have Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke _ever_ had a standard, professional relationship? Even back when the relationship had been cat-and-mouse, cop-and-robber, it had still been strange and a little too personal and undeniably unorthodox.

Most criminals didn’t send their pursuers birthday cards. Or pizza to the surveillance vans. Or, on one memorable occasion, a subscription to a caviar-of-the-month club, paid for with Peter’s own credit card.

(He’d been able to get the charges reversed, but only after the first two months’ deliveries had already arrived and El had enjoyed them so much, so— It hadn’t been _that_ expensive to reorder.)

And all that had been on Neal’s end; Peter’s side of things had been (as he consistently maintained) considerably more professional, but (as he would grudgingly admit) equally as dysfunctional.

Neal Caffrey is a conundrum. A cipher he can’t crack, a puzzle that he can’t solve, a mystery that doesn’t end just because he’s been caught. If anything, the mystery only gets deeper the more that Peter learns about him.

Neal Caffrey is an enigma.

Neal Caffrey is a _bad habit_.

There’s a box in his closet, still, that El wryly calls his ‘Caffrey collection’. All the things that he came across while hunting for Caffrey that there was no reason to log into evidence officially: brochures for places he’d stayed; brochures for places he’d robbed; the receipt for a suspiciously timed coffee delivery to the stakeout van that Peter had never been able to _prove_ was from Neal; and of course, those damn corks.

He doesn’t look in it very often anymore—he _doesn’t_ , the last time was when he was considering whether or not to take him up on the anklet deal, and that was perfectly legitimate _research_ —but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t think about it occasionally. That he doesn’t find himself watching Neal doodle on the edge of a form and wonder if the old man with the neat mustache and unimpressed expression is something from Neal’s overactive imagination, or someone he really knows. Maybe even someone from that mysterious past of his.

That every time Neal lets some new little detail slip, he doesn’t catch himself surreptitiously taking notes. And then, later, obsessing over it, to the point that El has to gently remind him that Neal isn’t actually the criminal he’s supposed to be chasing.

( _For now_ , Peter thinks, sometimes, when he’s at his wits end and the handcuffs in his pocket seem heavier than usual. He tries so hard to show Neal that there’s a better way, but— he’s just so _Neal_.)

As always, El’s not wrong; sometimes he _does_ go a little too far. Digs past what he can reasonably justify as Caffrey’s handler. Forgets that Neal is his partner, not his case.

And when the real case is something like _this_ , he can’t afford to be distracted.

It had started as something almost _fun_.

Neal might be his favorite puzzle, but he’s not the only one. This new thief is fun in a way that he hasn’t seen in a long time. It really is like chasing Neal all over again, but with the added bonus that this time, he also gets to have Neal on _his_ side.

Not that he’d ever mention that last part to Neal— it’s far more fun needling him, watching him get jealous and refuse to admit it.

So yeah, it was all fun and games until Neal took _one_ look at _one_ photograph, and saw something that no one else _in the entire Bureau_ could have seen on their own.

Literally— the first thing that Peter did when they got back to the office was call a friend of a friend over in Metropolis because he literally could not think of a single person in New York who had the expertise to confirm Neal’s intel.

It wasn’t the only time that Neal seemed to know things that he had no business knowing.

_I wouldn’t know. I think they have, like, satellites or something._

Yeah, right. Peter has heard that tone of shifty non-engagement far too many times. He just thanks his lucky stars that whatever it is that Neal once considered stealing from the Justice League (the Justice League! _Really_ , Neal?), he clearly never went through with it.

Peter shudders at the thought of Neal—impulsive, nonviolent Neal—locked up with the kind of monsters that the League puts away.

But then, the monsters aren’t the only thing to fear; if you ask Peter, the jailers are just as bad.

Not the League— while Peter might disapprove of _some_ of the methods of _some_ of their members, overall he accepts that the Justice League is a necessary shield between innocents and the kinds of threats that are far beyond the realm of Agent Burke and his gun and badge. Most of them, they really are heroes, and he can’t even begin to imagine how much they sacrifice to do it.

But.

The Justice League is independent of any government or nation. Their priority is protecting people, removing dangerous threats. Not everyone agrees with their priorities.

“You know I have to inform the appropriate agencies,” Hughes had said, his expression making clear his opinion on the subject. “Kryptonite is a Class X regulated substance. Hell, they made a whole new category just for this shit. I’m obligated to report that—”

“That what?” Peter had demanded, grasping at straws.”Sir, we haven’t recovered any kryptonite. We haven’t even _seen_ any real kryptonite. This is all still just theoretical.”

One craggy brow hauled upwards. “You think Caffrey’s wrong?”

Well, no, but—

“Neal’s good,” Peter admitted, “but he’s not infallible. If he was, we never would have caught him, would we?”

“But you think he’s wrong this time,” Hughes pressed.

Peter planted his hands on the desk. “I think that this is our case, Reese. I think that our perp is a _kid_ , and we don’t know all of what he’s into, but maybe neither does he. I think that if _those guys_ get their hands on him—no matter what he actually knows—that kid is gonna disappear. You know just as well as I do that they can do that.”

Better, probably; in his whole career, Peter has had one case that fell into the jurisdiction of what Jones likes to call the Men in Black. He has no idea how many Hughes must have seen over the course of his career and he’s pretty sure that, even if he asked, Reese wouldn’t be allowed to tell him.

The lines around his eyes had deepened, and Hughes looked his age in a way that he rarely did.

“It’s worth more than just my badge if I don’t report this,” he said heavily, “but I’ll buy you as much time as I can. But, Peter— if any of this gets out past the team, I won’t be able to stop them from claiming jurisdiction. Do you understand?”

“I do,” he’d vowed.

That promise had been a lot easier to make before their trap misfired so dramatically. Now Peter has a very public disaster with plenty of rich, gossipy witnesses, even more kryptonite in the hands of a literal teenager, a partner who’s somehow even jumpier than before, and few leads.

If Agents Smith and Smith showed up now, it would just be the icing on a very headache-inducing cake.

He has the news running in the background as he works, ears peeled for the slightest hint that the media might have gotten wind of the failed sting or, worse, the still-unaccounted-for kryptonite.

So far, no luck. The most interesting thing he’s heard in the past hour is some idiot who’d been arrested in Queens for stealing pets from people’s backyards and trying to sell them to local pet shops.

“…will be facing 16 charges of theft, and multiple additional charges for attempted sale of stolen property— some of which, according to an NYPD spokesman, are unrelated to Johnson’s petnapping spree. Emilia Vorse, whose 3-year-old Lab, Donnie, went missing last Thursday, has stated that while she is glad to know that the culprit has been arrested, she is even more relieved to finally have Donnie brought home safely…”

He tunes out again, both reassured and… disappointed, too.

It’s a good thing, obviously, that no one’s caught the scent. Lets them keep the fragile arrangement that keeps the case on _their_ desks.

But at the same time, with no leads to act on, it also leaves him too much time to brood on the case.

And on Neal.

He can’t quite get it out of his head; it’s that old itch, _The Archeologist_ , that need to dig and dig. To fit every piece to the puzzle.

_He’s not in it for the money, but he grew up surrounded by enough wealth to know how those kinds of people think. He has training, a mentor, but he’s starting to strike out on his own. Push the boundaries. He has a mission of some kind, one that only he knows, and he’s not going to stop until he completes it._

_Will he get bolder?_

_That’s what_ I _did._

For all that they’d teased Neal about the similarities between him and their perp, Peter had never really expected Neal to be willing to _acknowledge_ it.

And the rest of it— what did that mean for the rest of it?

He’d asked because—teasing aside—they all knew that Neal had more insight into someone like this than any of them ever could. But this… it felt almost too specific. Personal.

And while Peter would bet his boots that it’s true of their perp, that doesn’t mean he’s the _only_ one it’s true of.

_He’s not in it for the money, but he grew up surrounded by enough wealth to know how those kinds of people think._

Peter’s always wondered exactly what kind of background Neal came from.

The prevailing psychology holds that people like Neal, people obsessed with the kind of luxury that Neal surrounds himself with, people who take such care to present themselves as cultured and sophisticated, most of those people came from impoverished or disadvantaged backgrounds. It’s usually an attempt to reinvent themselves, to distance themselves from a past that was painful, or shameful.

But Peter’s never been sure. Painful, he can believe. That Neal is running from _something_ , he has no doubt.

But there’s always been a part of Neal that is a little too comfortable in the limelight. A part of him that doesn’t just _like_ attention, but _expects_ it.

And the comment about a mentor… Where had that come from? They hadn’t found any hints of an accomplice in the kryptonite thefts, no contacts, nothing.

So where the hell was Neal getting _that_ from?

Once, he might have believed that Mozzie filled that role in Neal’s life, but he knows them both well enough now to know better.

Mozzie might have mentored a young Neal in some aspects of criminality, but more than anything, they are equals. They each have their areas of expertise, complimentary but not identical.

Besides, the things that Neal seems to just _know_ go far beyond what even Mozzie could have taught him.

And so Peter’s always kind of assumed that Neal is self-taught, an autodidact with no compunctions against taking lessons from whoever he might encounter.

But this… the implication that there, at some point, was a mentor figure who taught him, who shaped him— Peter isn’t sure what to think.

He probably _shouldn’t_ think about the scars that Neal refuses to talk about. He shouldn’t think about the fact that they’re faded, old— _years_ old, maybe even _decades_.

Shouldn’t think about the fact that he knows that by the time Neal was eighteen, he already knew how to crack world-class security and lie better than a politician.

Because when he does, when he thinks about all those things, the picture they make is very…

Well, it’s very _Oliver Twist_.

It’s not a picture that Peter likes very much.

He picks up the coffee that has long since gone cold, and tries to force himself to focus on bitter taste, the jumble of papers in front of him, the rhythmic patter of the news reporter.

“Police are baffled after the discovery of the body of a 23 year old man in the Bronx. The deceased, who police have identified as Raul Gonzales, was discovered on North Brother Island off the southern edge of the Bronx on Friday. According to a source in the NYPD, the body appeared to have been impaled—”

“Cheerful,” Neal comments from the doorway, and Peter jerks hard enough to send a spray of coffee droplets across the front of his shirt.

“Christ,” he swears, scrabbling uselessly for something to clean it up. Neal produces a handkerchief—an honest-to-god linen handkerchief—from seemingly nowhere and Peter accepts it immediately. “I should put a bell on you.”

“You called?” Neal says innocently.

It doesn’t take long to fill him in on the new information because, quite honestly, there isn’t much; Carlisle’s name is a start, but there’s just not enough for action. It doesn’t matter that Carlisle is a criminal, suspected in multiple jewel thefts— until they have solid evidence linkinghim to _this_ theft, there’s only so much they can do.

Still, he’s grateful enough to have any lead that he almost doesn’t catch Neal’s reaction. Or, rather, his lack of reaction.

Oh, he nods in all the right places, asks all the right questions, and Peter can tell he is genuinely interested. But he’s digging at all the wrong places; it’s like— it’s like he’s not hearing something new, it’s like he’s just confirming details.

Peter would swear—maybe not on El’s life, but on _something_ —that Neal had heard the name Thomas Carlisle even before Peter called him. Maybe even before Peter heard it himself.

There’s very few places Neal could have heard that name in connection with this case.

Neal has the file open in his lap, and Peter can see, clipped to the very top sheet, the single photo of their mysterious young thief as he exits into the alley.

Neal had given chase, he remembers. Stupid thing for him to do— Neal was no fighter, he didn’t even carry handcuffs, what was he expecting to do if he caught him?

But Neal had been right behind him, and the FBI had been further behind them both, and it wasn’t inconceivable that the two of them might have exchanged words. It wasn’t inconceivable that—face-to-face not with an up-and-coming criminal like they’d all expected, but with an actual _kid_ —Neal might have made one of his infamous impulsive decisions.

This is _Neal_ , after all; one of the best and most infuriating things about him is that he genuinely wants to help people. If Neal had looked at their thief and saw a kid in trouble—more importantly, a kid _like him_ in trouble—he wouldn’t have even considered the consequences for himself.

Peter knows better than to ask outright.

“You seem distracted,” Peter says pointedly, watching Neal’s knee jiggle compulsively. Sometimes he wonders if it physically pains him to sit still. “Got somewhere else to be?”

The rhythm of his knee stutters almost imperceptibly. “No,” he says unconvincingly, and then sighs. “It’s just— Sara’s case wrapped up early, so she was going to take the day and since, you know, there’s not really much we can do here for now…”

“You want to take the day, too,” Peter says knowingly. Yes, he’s sure that’s exactly what Neal wants. Plenty of time to make contact with the thief, if he hasn’t already, for him and Mozzie to plot and scheme without Peter checking his anklet every five minutes.

He could shut this down right now, tell Neal no, or even insist on following him back to his apartment and see exactly what he finds there.

Or…

He could let this play out.

“Neal,” he says, making his voice firm. “I like the two of you together. She’s a good influence on you.”

“You think so?” Neal asks, and there’s something curious in his voice that Peter tries not to imagine is hope.

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t be a bad influence on _her_.”

Something complicated flashes over Neal’s face and then his eyes suddenly flick away, to something behind Peter.

Peter half-turns before he realizes it’s the news that’s caught his attention again. There’s a Breaking News banner across the bottom of the screen, but the anchor looks far too calm for anything urgent.

“—sighted in New York? We go now to Jenny Gibson on the scene.”

“Thanks, Rashmi. As of half an hour ago, we have confirmed reports that Robin the Boy Wonder and the Superboy have been sighted right here in New York. This sighting—coming so soon after the Boy of Steel was spotted with the teen speedster Impulse in Metropolis—has sparked rumors that this might be the start of a new attempt to create a super-team for sidekicks.

“Superheroes have always been controversial figures— their often-underage sidekicks, even more so. Parent groups and child advocates have long decried what they see as child endangerment and even, some have gone so far as to say, the creation of child soldiers. While no League-affiliated hero has ever expressly condemned the practice, most Leaguers—even a few who are mentors themselves—avoid actively endorsing underage superheroes.”

“The first known attempt at a Sidekicks’ League was back in 2000. After an incident in the small town of Hatton Corners, prominent sidekicks including Wonder Girl, Kid Flash, and Aqualad announced their intention to form a new teen crime-fighting team, independent of the Justice League and their individual mentors. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your opinion on underage vigilanteism—their aspiration lasted only a handful of weeks before the new Young Justice League apparently disbanded for good.

“In the years since, there have been several attempts at teenage team-ups, but none have lasted more than a few weeks.

“None of the sidekicks involved have ever commented on _why_ the Junior League failed, but many commentators have noticed that the formation—and dissolution— of the new Junior League overlapped with a period of sudden rollbacks for sidekicks in America. Over the course of six months or so, over half of all sidekicks disappeared at least temporarily from public view.

“Kid Flash and Speedy—the Green Arrow’s protégé—were among those who vanished shortly after the failure of the Junior League, only to reappear on the streets a few months later. Kid Flash discussed this period only once, speaking at an interview in his native Central City a few years ago.”

A picture flashed on the screen of a— well, he was a kid. Couldn’t be older than 20, wearing goggles and a yellow leather half-cowl that does nothing to hide the bob of his prominent Adam’s apple.

“Yeah, uh, I can’t really talk about that too much,” he says, looking incredibly uncomfortable. There’s something slightly blurred about his image, like maybe he was fidgeting just slightly too fast for the news camera’s frame-rate to handle. “All I can say is that things were pretty… tough, for a while there. Flash, he— they all just wanted to keep us safe. I’m not gonna say they went about it the right way, but, like… I can understand where they were coming from? But I think all of us—the, you know, sidekicks—we’ve proven that we’ve earned the right to be here. We’ve earned the right to decide for ourselves and do what _we_ think is right. For ourselves, and for the people that we’ve lost. And the adults figured that out after a couple months.”

The image flicks back to the reporter, her expression calm and professional.

“Senator Demetria Greenberg of New York addressed the issue of underage vigilantes at a fundraising event last week.”

This time, no video; just the soundbite and the transcript flashing up on the screen.

“ _If this was the Sudan, we’d call them child soldiers. If this was Syria, we’d be calling the Hague. But this is America, and we let these children walk into situations where they have to make terrible, unimaginable decisions. The kinds of decisions that haunt grown men and women for the rest of their lives. These are kids. It’s our duty to protect them, not the other way around. They should be going to school, hanging out with their friends, making the kinds of mistakes that don’t have lives on the line. They should be safe, and loved, and protected. There are enough kids that don’t have that as it is, how can we watch this happen to good kids and do nothing? These are kids. They should get to be kids.”_

Peter’s finger finds the power button and the picture compresses to black and silence.

Neal is being uncharacteristically quiet. When Peter glances at him, his gaze is still fixed on the blank TV screen, his expression drawn, though not in a tense way. If anything, he looks almost… sad. Maybe even a little guilty, which is not an emotion many people would be able to identify on Neal Caffrey’s face.

After a moment, his gaze drops to his lap. The picture of the young thief is still clipped to the top, and Neal traces the edge with a single finger.

Peter can guess what he’s thinking.

“What do you think of him?” he asks softly, nodding at the picture when Neal glances up at him.

Neal’s eyes flick back to the picture, and the very edge of his lips quirks up in a bitter smile.

“He's a kid having the time of his life. He's intelligent, arrogant, and has no idea how deeply in over his head he is.” Luckily, Peter doesn’t even have to say anything, Neal meets his eyes and says, more wry than reluctant, “Okay, fine. He bears a _cursory_ resemblance to me.”

Peter lets that pass. Grudging self-awareness is better than nothing. Besides, he has bigger concerns.

“He’s just a kid,” he says, saddened himself by the truth of it. “How’d he even get into this? How does anyone get into this so young?”

It’s not—

He’s asking about Alvin. That’s all.

He’s not _prying_.

Neal shrugs. “How does anyone? Life doesn’t care how old you are. You fall down enough, one day you figure out you can push _back_.” Neal smiles, but his lips are twisted a little at the edges. “Besides. Everyone always underestimates a kid.”

Of the two of them, Peter’s not the liar; he can only tell himself that this is about Alvin Draper for so long.

_Kids should be kids_.

“I wonder what would've happened if I'd have caught you earlier,” he says softly.

There must have been a point where Neal still could’ve walked away. Where he hadn’t committed to this life. Where he could’ve just been a _kid_.

He still is a kid, in so many ways.

But not in the most important ones. His eyes are very old and very clear when he speaks. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Peter,” he says. “And even if you did catch me early enough, it wouldn't have made a difference.”

It’s so matter-of-fact that Peter feels his eyes widening as Neal continues, his gaze still just a touch too sharp and knowing.

“This life is a rush. It's an addiction. And you need to hit rock bottom before you can get out.”

Peter can’t stop himself from digging.

“When did you hit bottom?”

Neal Caffrey is a puzzle that Peter may never fully solve, but by now he likes to think that he’s at least glimpsed most of the important pieces. It’s fitting them together that’s the problem.

Was it prison? Kate? Fowler? Adler?

For just a second, Neal meets his eyes and Peter, for all the facts and tics and tidbits he’s put together on one _Neal George Caffrey_ , can’t even begin to decode what he finds there.

“You know,” Neal says softly, “I really thought I knew.” His finger flicks once at the edge of the photo before he closes the folder resolutely and gives Peter a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I guess maybe I’m not as far out of it all as I thought.”

Peter thinks of forged bonds and birthday cards, of kids who never got to be kids and Nazi submarines. Thinks of cons and stings and gray areas. Thinks of addictions and obsessions.

Of old habits and how hard it is to let them go.

Neal isn’t a kid.

He’s a grown man who makes his own decisions, no matter how much they make Peter want to pull his hair out.

Sometimes all there is to do is let Neal dig himself into a hole— and hope that he doesn’t go so far that Peter can’t help him dig himself back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long few weeks, thanks for sticking with this. New POV, which I'm not sure I'm super thrilled with how it turned out, but I wanted a bit of inside-out(sider) POV. Peter picks up so much about Neal, he really does, but how could he possibly guess the context he’d need to put the pieces together the right way?
> 
> On a sidenote, it's interesting to think of the effect of Robin's disappearance not just on the Bats, but on the wider caped community. I'm not saying the young hero teams _couldn't_ have formed w/out Dick Grayson, but I do think that something bad happening to essentially the first and most well-known of the sidekicks would probably have a huge ripple effect on sidekicks in general. And with the timing of everything (the whole Two-Face thing and the original Teen Titans team-up would have been within months of eachother), I think that kid team-ups w/out JL supervision would not have been tolerated nearly as well by the mentors. Possibly this world has something closer to the cartoon Young Justice team, but that wouldn't be public knowledge. So. Thoughts?
> 
> Next time:
> 
> Well, they’re not exactly the Merry Men


	11. Lincoln Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, they’re not exactly the Merry Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am seriously so sorry, you guys. Super long wait for a... mildly long chapter. Just a mix of super busy plus low inspiration plus hard time settling down to write. I can't even tell you how much I appreciate your patience and your wonderful reviews and kudos!
> 
> Chapter title, because I can't get enough of the Robin Hood references and the green/kryptonite thing was just too good to pass up: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincoln_green

So it starts like this:

Two conmen, an insurance investigator, and a teenage vigilante walk into an unwitting-but-still-criminal kryptonite dealer’s heavily secured building.

Neal’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know the punchline.

“What about the security footage,” Tim says without so much as a twitch at the lips. A useful skill for any would-be vigilante, but especially for anyone who has to deal with Vicki Vale.

“Not a problem,” Neal says confidently, not bothering with the same subterfuge.

After all, which is more suspicious, a man and a teenager loitering silently in the lobby of a fancy office building, or a handsome, well-dressed young man and his younger brother stepping in out of the rain for a moment?

(It’s the most logical cover story; what else should people assume, seeing the two of them together?)

The tip of his umbrella _tap-taps_ against the gleaming granite like a cane as they carefully skirt the atrium, aiming for the discreet steel door tucked just out of view of the security desk.

Sara isn’t with them; a smaller group is less suspicious. She’ll make her own way in later— and besides, she has another task to attend to first.

> (“The plan could work,” Mozzie says, not sounding in the least convinced. “ _Assuming_ the Justice League doesn’t sick their assassins on us first.”
> 
> Alright, so maybe he hasn’t _entirely_ lost his fear of the Justice League.
> 
> Sara’s eyebrows jump up and she looks sharply at him. “I’m sorry, _what_ now?”
> 
> “Wrong League, Moz,” Neal sighs.
> 
> Mozzie points a salt shaker at him. “That’s what they _want_ you to think.”
> 
> “I’m sorry, wait,” Sara butts in, “assassins? The _Justice League_ sent assassins after you?”
> 
> “Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim says, “the Justice League doesn’t have assassins. The League of Assassins sent assassins after me.”
> 
> Sara leans forward in that especially dangerous way of hers and Neal says hastily, “So the important part is that we have a plan for that too. Alvin?”
> 
> Tim’s shoulders straighten. If he wasn’t always halfway faded into the background when he’s in a group, he’d probably actually make a pretty good leader. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”)

They make it all the way back to the security door without challenge and Tim pops his umbrella without so much as breaking step. He slips into position, the umbrella angled up and to the side to block as much of the camera’s view as possible. Annoying that it’s even necessary, but Tim won’t be able to slip into the system and start the loop until he’s physically _in_ Carlisle’s office. Carlisle’s security is top-of-the-line, LexTech. Impossible to hack remotely. Cybernetically impenetrable.

Which is probably why no one had bothered to think outside of the box when it came to the more mundane aspects of security. Like doors.

Mozzie’s compressed air gun works a charm, punches right through 3/4 inch-thick steel with no more noise than a door closing a little loudly.

Of course, in the near-abandoned lobby, even that will be enough to attract the attention of the lone security guard at the desk, so they work fast.

Neal draws his own umbrella as Tim peeks carefully around the corner. He slips it carefully through the perfectly round hole and presses the button on the handle. It unfurls with a quiet _whoosh_ , and Neal yanks it back towards himself so that the ribs catch the door’s push bar. It sticks for a second then surrenders.

Neal pulls the door open just far enough for Tim to slip a hand in the gap to hold it from closing on them. He doesn’t bother trying to pull the umbrella back through the way it came; instead he just shoves the handle the rest of the way through the hole and quickly reaches up to trade Tim for his umbrella. Tim relinquishes it gratefully and pries the door open just enough to squeeze his skinny frame through the crack and then haul it shut after him.

The instant it clicks shut behind him, Neal swings the umbrella down and makes a show of trying to close it just as the security guard comes around the corner.

“Hey, you can't have that open indoors.”

He barely glances up at the guard, keeps his focus on the umbrella like the idea that he could be doing something that could get him into trouble hasn’t even crossed his mind.

“Oh, I know. It's bad luck. I've been trying to close it. The catch is stuck.”

He fumbles at it in demonstration and the guard scowls.

“Out.”

Neal makes a few more perfunctory protestations and then obligingly _outs_.

Over the comm, he can hear the controlled huff of Tim’s breath as he jogs up the access stairs. Two flights, Neal remembers from the blueprints, then down a service corridor, through a security door with a simple four-digit keypad, right past the elevator bank, then straight on until he hits the utility closet.

“ _Alright,_ ” Tim says, “ _I’m at the junction box. Ms. Ellis, you’re up._ ”

When he’d made his exit, Neal had chosen the west side of the building, not as easily visible from the lobby, so he almost misses Sara’s entrance.

Luckily, Sara is a woman who is hard to miss.

The under layer she’d chosen was short enough and her perfectly-fitted trenchcoat long enough to obscure the fact that she’d traded in her usual tight pencil skirt for a pair of more practical jogging shorts. All anyone not in the know would notice are her spiky heels and long, _long_ legs disappearing under the tan coat that only barely reaches her mid-thigh. It’s exactly the thing to drive imaginations wild, and Sara Ellis _knows_ it.

Sara has an expression on her face that is intense but not actually murderous, so Neal guesses that Tim’s vague description of _angry bald woman, looks like you could literally fry an egg on her head_ was enough to locate the anachronistically named ‘Prudence’.

And, judging by the lack of visible assassins or stab-wounds, the passphrase and documents Tim had provided had successfully convinced his assassin-groupie that she had a very important mission, direct from the Demon’s Daughter.

Of course, all Ms. Prudence will _actually_ find on her mission is a lengthy wild goose chase to a vault deep within a WayneTech military research laboratory which, most unfortunately, tended to lock behind any unwary visitors. Quite the oversight, to build an impenetrable vault on a six-hour timer.

So inconvenient.

> (“Why do you have access to a military research laboratory?”
> 
> “Long story.” Tim holds out a blandly professional-looking suitcase. “Remember, the passphrase is _Sargon._ ”
> 
> “I still can’t believe she’s going by _Talia Head._ ” Neal grumbles. “I mean, seriously? What, middle name ‘Diabolica’?”
> 
> Sara ignores him, taking the case from Tim gingerly. “And what, exactly, is this… _Pru_ …going to find in this vault?” she asks.
> 
> Tim scratches the back of his neck. “Like, half a box of twinkies? Bart kept stealing mine, so.” He shrugs self-consciously.
> 
> Sara rubs her temple. “Of course that’s what would be in there. Great. Okay, I’m off to send an angry assassin on a snack run. See you on the other side, boys.”)

The security guard looks up as she approaches the desk, frowning slightly. The upside of doing this over the lunch hour is that Carlisle isn’t hanging around; the downside, neither is anyone else. No crowds to blend into. Few distractions that they haven’t provided for themselves.

Not that Sara _needs_ a distraction, of course.

“Hi. I’m here for Mr. Carlisle,” Sara says smoothly, coming to a stop in front of the security desk. One hand delicately flicks a strand of auburn hair out of her face. “Mr. Luthor sent me.”

From his angle, Neal can actually see the guard stand a little bit straighter.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, “I don’t think Mr. Carlisle is expecting anyone from Mr. Luthor’s office…”

Sara smiles coquettishly and reaches up to undo a button, allowing just the tiniest hint of lace to peek through.

“I don’t think you understand,” she says sweetly, leaning forward over the desk. “I’m here _for_ Mr. Carlisle.” The guard’s eyes are dragged unwittingly down, and Sara adds coyly, “Mr. Luthor rewards his friends.”

The guard’s throat bobs. “Um, right. I, uh. I’ll have to.” He clears his throat just loud enough that it carries over to Sara’s microphone. “Call his office. Let me just—”

He practically dives for the phone, and Neal suppresses his snort in favor of tapping on his comm.

“Hope you’re ready up there,” he murmurs, and Tim snorts.

“ _I was_ born _ready— Hello? Yes, this is Mr. Carlisle’s office… Luthor sent her? Yes, send her up immediately. Mr. Carlisle’s been waiting for her…_ ”

He knows Sara well enough to know that she _absolutely_ flashes the guard a killer smile as he buzzes her up the elevator. He doesn’t blame the man for stumbling back to the desk a little too fast to notice the elevator making an unscheduled stop on the second floor.

“ _Nice to see you again, Ms. Ellis,_ ” Tim says breezily, and there’s a slight echo as Sara’s mic picks up his words as well.

“ _Same to you, Junior,_ ” and Neal isn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed that Tim has apparently inherited yet another of his old nicknames (admittedly not one that with _nearly_ as much baggage, but it’s the principle of the thing).

Of course, the indignant little noise Tim makes decides it for him in favor of _amused_ ; he wonders if this is what it would have been like if B had picked up his other strays a few years earlier.

Not the time to think about that— they have a mission.

Tim and Sara will have a three minute window to get in and set the video loop before the security guard finishes his round and checks his monitor.

Less than that now, Neal thinks as the elevator doors, presumably, beep open for them.

_“Mr. Carlisle certainly has interesting taste in decor,”_ Sara comments.

“Peter mentioned he was a collector,” Neal agrees, checking his watch again. Two minutes until the security check.

_“Some of this stuff is pretty morbid for an art collection,”_ Tim says. _“I’m 90% sure that those doubloons are from the wreck of the_ Nuestra Señora del Rosario _. And that statue—that’s Iraqi, probably looted. And—Jeez, I remember that, that was one of the signs from the No Man’s Land, that’s messed up. No wonder this guy gets along with Lex Luthor—”_

“One minute,” Neal says sharply. “Alvin, focus. We need those cameras.”

A pause, then:

_“You got it, Boss.”_

Tim’s tone is mild, but Neal flinches regardless. He’s not— He doesn’t _want_ to sound like Him. It’s just, he’s so used to being the front man, to being the one taking the risks, that it’s strange being on this end of the coms.

_(Old habits— Shut up!)_

_“Alright,”_ Tim says, before Neal can fall any further down that rabbit hole. “ _The feed is looped. As far as anyone’s concerned, we’re not here and we never were.”_

_“Let’s find this safe,”_ Sara says, and Neal mutes his comm for a moment to just breathe. Obviously, he knows that Tim is more than qualified, and Sara can definitely look after herself, but…

Rationally, he knows that as long as he has the anklet, he’s a liability. There’s a record of every movement he makes and while he’s been careful not to give anyone reason to be checking his GPS right now, the closer he is, the more he puts the whole mission at risk.

(He’s pretty sure Tim could’ve had the anklet off in thirty seconds flat, but he hadn’t offered and Neal hadn’t asked. After all, Neal’s a criminal and Tim’s a Bat. He doesn’t need to ask to know where the line is.)

Point is, he’s more use to them out here, keeping an eye out in case Carlisle manages to slip Moz’s surveillance or in case any of Ra’s many minions figure out that they’ve been given the run-around…

If anyone asked, later, he’d say it was pure instinct that made him look up right then.

_(That’s one of the many tells for people like them, he knows. Normal people never seem to think to look up.)_

Carlisle’s building is a looming mass of steel and tinted glass, utterly indistinguishable from its fellows to the average observer.

Neal isn’t average.

He squints upwards, shading out the sun with the side of his free hand as he tries to figure out what it was that had caught his attention, but all seems normal.

Finally, he catches it; there, at the very edge of his awareness, a flicker of movement, a flash of… orange—?

“Out for a stroll?”

It’s rare that he’s genuinely taken by surprise, but Neal just about jumps out of his skin when a strong grip spins him around by the shoulder and he finds himself face-to-face with a very familiar—and distinctly unamused—scowl.

“Peter!” he gasps.

He’s too off-balance to resist as Peter steals the umbrella right out of his grasp.

“Imagine my surprise,” Peter says, waving the purloined umbrella at him, “when I checked your anklet and found out that you were right outside Carlisle's office.”

Neal blinks rapidly, raising his hands as if that can actually ward away the lingering feeling of whiplash.

Damage control. That’s what he—what they—need right now.

“I can explain,” he says quickly, before Peter can start building up steam, but, really, it’s already too late for that.

“Starting with the kid. Is he in there?”

Neal purses his lips, wondering if he can unmute his comm without Peter noticing. “I think it’s better if I don’t answer that.”

“Better for you or me?” Peter demands, and something about his tone gets Neal’s back up, just a little.

“For T— For _Alvin_ ,” he retorts. “Look, we’ve got a plan.” When Peter scoffs and spins away, one hand rising to cup the back of his neck, Neal plows on, “Part of that plan is contingent on you not knowing what it is.”

He knows Peter, and Peter knows him, well enough to read the implication.

Peter turns back, crowds in on him close enough that their shoulders are almost touching.

“You promised you wouldn’t put me in this position again,” he says, lowly, his bulk blocking the words from any passersby who might happen to overhear.

It takes a moment for Neal to recall.

_Hagen._

“Peter, I didn’t,” he says fervently. “There’s nothing going on in that building that wouldn’t be officially sanctioned.”

By the Justice League and not any civilian authority, admittedly, but that’s a detail he doesn’t need to concern Peter with.

Peter grunts, clearly not believing him. Neal can’t exactly blame him.

“Please, Peter,” he says softly. “Trust me.”

In his ear, he hears Tim say, _“Shit,”_ and he knows he should probably be concerned, but he keeps his focus on Peter, who is watching him back just as intently.

“Alvin can’t be allowed to run around like this, with all that kryptonite,” Peter says. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt, starting with him. I need to bring him in.”

_“Hey, um, Neal? We have a bit of a problem.”_ Tim says over the comm, but Neal ignores him for the moment.

For Peter, he shakes his head. “He won’t let you,” he says flatly. “But the kryptonite— Give me an hour. After that, I think I can get him to turn it in to the FBI.”

“You _think?_ ”

“I know.”

So that’s maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but he thinks he has a pretty good grip on Tim’s character.

“Neal? Can you hear me?”

This time, he reaches up to tap his comm on again for just a moment, uncaring of Peter watching. “Give me one sec.”

_“We’re kind of working on a deadline here.”_ Sara, this time.

Neal looks to Peter helplessly. “Look, I have to go.”

Peter doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t stop him either. “I'll be waiting right here. When you come back, he’d better be ready to hand over the kryptonite.”

“Thank you,” Neal says fervently, and then he ducks into the lobby and opens the comm line again. “I’m on my way.”

It’s easy enough to get through the security door the same way Tim had, and at this point he doesn’t bother worrying about the cameras. Besides, it’s not nearly so much of a problem if he’s caught on film as if Tim is; and if they all get caught in Carlisle’s office anyways, it’s something of a moot point to worry about identifying camera footage.

“Running out of umbrellas,” he says as he steps out of the elevator into Carlisle’s penthouse office. “What's wrong?”

Tim and Sara are standing near the windows, facing the abutting wall with grave expressions.

“Art isn’t the only thing Carlisle likes to collect,” Tim says, mouth twisted like he’s tasted something sour. “Apparently, a LexTech safe didn’t have enough… character for him.”

Neal steps around the corner and gets a good view of the safe, and he immediately understands Tim’s expression.

The safe is about the height of a man, made of dark metal that is pitted and scarred by what Neal strongly suspects is acid. But that’s not the worst bit; no, the worst bit is is the two words carved across the door in a chaotic scrawl,but still so nastily legible.

**_HA HA !!!_ **

A minute ago, this was all about getting the kryptonite off the street and catching the original thief, but now Neal is really looking forward to seeing Carlisle behind bars.

“You think it’s really him?” Sara asks, (thankfully, for the sake of Neal’s sanity) standing a good distance back from the safe. “That psycho from Gotham? You don’t think Carlisle’s _working_ with him, do you?”

“Doubt it,” Tim says before Neal can say a word. “This thing is _old_. Like, ancient. Like, I was in _preschool_ ancient. What I’m trying to say here is that it’s just a _little_ before my time.”

Neal scowls, because Tim’s not even _trying_ to be subtle.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ve seen this model before. Six cylinders, two false gates. I think we can assume there’ll be booby traps. Sara...” He hesitates. If he could, he’d send her put of the building entirely, but he already knows just how well even _suggesting_ it will go over.

Besides, he can’t think of an excuse for sending the woman but not the sixteen-year-old to safety that won’t get his ass kicked.

“Just… give us some space,” he finishes after a moment, “Kid, you’re with me.”

Sara frowns a little, but steps back. Not nearly as far as he would have liked, but he’ll take it.

He steps forward, lays his fingers against the pitted metal and focuses very hard on _not_ throwing up all over his very expensive shoes. Of all the things that he might be willing to admit (after more than a few drinks) that he misses about his old life, the Joker is _not_ one of them.

This particular safe, he doesn’t remember, but he does remember half a dozen others, all uniquely sadistic and unhinged. That was the most dangerous thing about the Joker; while other psychopaths had a— well, _logic_ is the wrong word, but a _pattern_ , perhaps, to their psychoses—the Joker is an agent of true chaos.

Luckily, however, even the Joker needs a good safe-maker. And ten years ago, there was exactly one guy in Gotham that any self-respecting super-villain would go to for a custom job. Old Buck had been an artist when it came to pins and gates and tripwires, and more than that, he was _sane_. Once you saw enough of his work, you started to see the patterns.

He turns the dial experimentally, feeling the soft _click-click_ vibrating through his fingers.

“I’ll go by touch,” he says to Tim. “You go by sound. Keep an ear out for anything… off.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, a hint sardonic. “ _Sounds_ like a plan.”

Neal bites his tongue to keep from reacting. It’s been a long time since his own punning days.

He does appreciate that Tim takes a moment to feel out the surface of the safe for pressure plates or spikes or acid before pressing his ear against it.

Neal turns the wheel with a light touch, easing through the ratchets, letting the safe’s own mechanisms do most of the work. A little farther and something in the mechanism catches and holds.

“Drop one,” he says and Tim makes an agreeing grunt.

Turning the other way, still the light touch, his senses narrowed down to the subtle shudders of the metal under his fingertips.

Still, this time it’s Tim who catches it. “Drop two,” he says clearly.

“Good ear,” Neal murmurs, and even with almost all his concentration focused on the safe, he can feel the kid smirk.

It’s only years of practice that keeps him from jerking and ruining all their work when the door to Carlisle’s office suddenly shoots open.

“We’ve got a problem,” Mozzie gasps, flushed like he’s been running, his glasses askew. “Someone tipped Carlisle.”

“What?” Sara snaps. “How? _Who?_ ”

“I don’t know! I called and no one picked up, so I came to warn you!”

“Why didn’t you use the comms?” Tim.

“I tried! He must have some kind of jammer!”

Sara again: “We need that safe open, now.”

He tilts his face just enough to give her a raised eyebrow, a silent _what do you think I’m doing?_ and then turns his attention back to the safe. He eases the dial forward a few more marks and feels the catch at the same moment Tim says, “Drop three.”

Back again, and he lightens his touch even further, if possible.

_Click, click, click, click... clonk._

“Drop four,” he breathes, and it’s pure instinct that has his hand shooting out to catch Tim’s wrist before he can even move towards the handle.

“Wait,” he says.

Sure enough, after a moment there’s a faint whirr and a panel pops open near the base of the safe, revealing a second, identical handle.

The covering panel had been so well-designed that the seams had been functionally invisible to the naked eye, but Dick remembers.

(No, _Neal_ remembers. He can’t be Dick right now, not with Sara and Mozzie right there, watching with undisguised fascination.)

“It’s a decoy,” he says aloud. “Anyone who touched it would be laughing their skin off right now, literally.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Tim says, “But I wasn’t actually going to touch it?”

Sure enough, now that he’s thinking with his actual grown-up, pixie-boot-free brain, Neal can recognize that Tim’s wrist never so much as twitched in his grip. That he’s still holding. Right. Neal drops it hastily.

“Right. Yeah. So, I’ll just—” He reaches for the actual handle to cut off his own vomit of awkwardness, running his fingers tentatively across and around the metal in search of any secondary traps.

He’s not especially surprised when he doesn’t find any; it’s one thing to make a septuple-booby-trapped safe when you know that your local vigilante/superhero will be busting in to find the kryptonite (only usually metaphorically speaking) for your latest dastardly scheme, it’s another thing entirely to have to worry about blowing your fingers off every time you need a bit of less-than-legal cash.

And while Carlisle is definitely vainglorious and more than a little psychotic, he’s not a _complete_ idiot. If he has any sense, he’ll have had the rest of the exterior triggers, at least, disarmed.

And given that they’re putting in rather than taking out, he doubts the interior traps will be much of a problem.

Still, he holds his breath as he eases the door open.

Nothing.

He lets out the breath. “We’re in,” he says.

It sounds like someone says “Finally,” under their breath, but he can’t tell who. He ignores it and holds out a hand for the kryptonite. Tim slips him the box—lead-lined, undoubtedly, given who Neal strongly suspects was the ‘friend’ holding on to it for him—and Neal flicks open the lid.

Somehow, the twin panels of kryptonite are even tackier when they _aren’t_ mounted on beer taps. It’s a miracle of bad taste. He slips them onto an empty space on the shelf.

“Let’s see Carlisle worm his way out of _that_.” Neal says with some satisfaction.

“You mean the evidence that we just planted in his safe?” Tim questions with a hint of sardonicism.

“ _Returned_ ,” Neal corrects. “It’s practically a good deed. A little… vigilante, maybe. But— well.” He shrugs and smiles a little, the silent _so are you_ hanging in the air between them.

Though Tim’s mouth twists a little wryly, he doesn’t seem to take it as a jab at him personally.

It’s not malice. Just a fact.

Besides, Neal’s not one to talk.

“While this is all great,” Sara cuts in, not sounding like _great_ is the word she’s thinking of, “if you boys are done playing Robin Hood, can we get out of here before Carlisle gets here?”

“You know,” Mozzie says testily, “all that nonsense about Robin Hood giving away the products of his hard work was a later fabrication to make a genuine felonious _virtuoso_ and folk hero into an establishment _stooge_ who could be used for their _propagandic_ purposes—”

“Carlisle’s made the lobby,” Tim (thankfully) interrupts, his fingers flying across the keyboard of his phone as he paces towards the far wall. “Your FBI agent is stalling him, but we only have a few minutes.”

Neal swings the safe shut, careful to leave it just barely ajar (that’s all Peter will need) and briskly reaches for Tim’s backpack.

“Time to go, then.”

Tim, bless his little vigilante heart, already has the window open and is holding out his hand for the bag. Neal passes it to him without comment and turns to help Mozzie, then Sara out onto the narrow ledge before hopping up himself.

This high up, the wind snatches at their hair and clothing with greedy, coaxing fingers. Sara has it the worst, with her long trench coat flapping open at the tie. Combined with the heels, Neal doesn’t blame her grip on the building for being distinctly white-knuckled.

Doesn’t blame her, but doesn’t quite share the sentiment. The world stretches out beneath him and for one crazy second he imagines that he feels the flutter of a cape against the back of his thighs.

“Heads up!” Tim calls out, and Neal raises a hand automatically to catch the harness that Tim throws at his face. No— two harnesses. Tim had thrown him Sara’s as well. Probably smart of him, doesn’t seem like Sara’s going to have a hand free any time soon.

He has to practically kneel on the narrow ledge to help her step into it, but if there’s one thing that years without training hasn’t managed to touch, it’s his sense of balance.

He slides it up her legs and tightens it around her waist and legs, double- and triple-checking every strap and buckle. When he’s satisfied it’s secure, he steps back and allows check on the others.

Tim is having a much more difficult time wrangling Mozzie into his own harness. If Sara is holding on, Mozzie is _clinging_. His whole back is plastered up against the side of the building, arms braced wide. Very Buster Keaton. Tim is trying to get him to at least lift one foot to step into the harness, but no amount of coaxing will get Moz to move.

Well, Neal could have warned him about that.

He taps Sara lightly on the shoulder and glances meaningfully past her and she nods in understand and presses closer to the side so that he can squeeze past her on the ledge.

Tim glances up when he gets close and he doesn’t even have to say a word before kid is practically shoving the harness at him.

“All yours!” he says hastily, pushing back into the wall so that Neal can slip past him as well. “Have fun with that.”

Little brat. But years of familiarity with Mozzie’s particular neuroses _do_ give Neal something of an advantage.

As behind him Tim starts the process of anchoring the grapples to the side of the building, Neal drops to a knee by Mozzie’s feet, harness at the ready. Mozzie shifts slightly, mouth opening, when Neal strikes. Quick as a striking snake, his hand shoots out, aimed for the exposed strip between Mozzie’s pant leg and his ratty short sock. His fingers pinch, hard, at the vulnerable fleshy junction behind his bony ankle, and Mozzie _squeals_. When the foot jerks instinctively upwards, to escape, Neal is waiting with the harness at the ready. He slips it over the first leg and then repeats the process— praying all the while that Peter still has Carlisle safely away from the office and out of earshot.

“Don’t… do that again,” Mozzie pants as Neal finishes pulling straps and checking buckles.

“Don’t do what? Neal teases, yanking the last strap hard enough to make Mozzie yelp.

“…That,” Mozzie says weakly.

Neal chuckles and pats him on the shoulder before turning to the last member of their little troupe, who is just finishing anchoring the second grapple.

“Alright,” he says. “Your turn.”

Tim gives him half a glance, bemused. “I’m all set,” he says, patting his harness.

“Let me see,” Neal orders, stepping into his space to check the fit and feel along the buckles. Tim makes a noise of protest and tries to lean away, but Neal chases after him until he’s satisfied that the harness is correct.

“Great,” he says, dropping his hands. “Now the lines.”

Now Tim is actually frowning, a hint of storm clouds across that otherwise even keel.

“I know how to anchor a line,” he says sharply.

“Great,” Neal repeats, reaching out for the closest line. “I’m just going to check.”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“And I’m going to check!” He forces himself to take a breath. Reins his temper in. “It’s nothing personal, okay? I _have_ to check. It’s— It doesn’t matter how good you are. It can happen to anyone. Trust me on that, ok?”

Something like understanding and maybe…shame, or embarrassment at the very least, spreads across Tim’s face, and Neal looks away, suddenly embarrassed himself.

“Oh,” Tim says. “I’m sorry. You… do what you need to do, man.”

He does, and is glad when no one makes any further comment about it.

He’s checking the second line, hauling on it with his full weight to ensure it’s solidly anchored, when he sees it and sudden bile rises in his throat.

“Tim,” he calls, low enough that the others won’t hear. Tim looks over sharply, and Neal gestures subtly with his chin.

A scant few feet below the narrow ledge they’re standing on is another, narrower ledge; and there, impaled on a twist of wire, is the limp body of what is unmistakably a robin.

Tim doesn’t pale or tense up or give any outward sign that he’s seen the bloody message for what it is, but Neal can see it in the way he starts chivvying the others along with newfound resolution.

Neal doesn’t blame him for that any more than he’d blames Sara for her reaction earlier; as it stands, there’s little enough they can do about the macabre little display, and their time is ticking down faster and faster. Really, it’s a bloody miracle that Peter’s managed to buy them as much time as he has.

Seeing as they only have access to two Justice League-grade grapples (which Sara had taken surprisingly well, all things considering, when they’d inevitably come to that part of the plan. More exasperation than anything, which either meant that she’s simply accepted it as another strange part of dating Neal Caffrey, or he’s going to get an awful lot of very pointed questions as soon as they’re alone), Neal and Tim are the primaries for this next bit. Mozzie and Sara, now securely attached by their harnesses, are just along for the ride.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Sara’s voice is light, but Neal knows her well enough to see the hint of vulnerability hiding behind the question.

“Hey.” He rubs his thumb up her shoulder, one smooth, strong stroke. He tilts his head down a little to look in her eyes and smiles a little. “I won’t let you fall. Okay? I promise.”

She breathes out shakily and bobs her head in a nod. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” Neal repeats, grinning like a lovestruck idiot. “Here we go.”

He feels Sara’s muscles tense against him, but he’s already pushing off the building, the line whirring out above their heads as they drop.

It’s not free-fall, of course; the descent is controlled, even. Not quite rappelling, but close.

Still, there’s wind in his hair, that old jump in his stomach. It feels like home.

He hears the faint _ding_ of the elevator opening just as they drop out of sight of Carlisle’s floor, and if he didn’t think the sound would carry, Neal would let out a whoop. Talk about cutting it close— but that’s just like old times too, the thrill of it, the close shaves and the adrenaline.

The world is a whirl of color and wind and god, he _missed_ this, how has he lived without this for so many years?

“ _Ohgod, Neal!_ ” Sara gasps in his ear, her sharp nails digging daggers into his shoulders even through the double layer of his shirt and jacket.

He opens eyes that he hadn’t even realized he’d closed to see the ground looming larger and larger beneath them.

Were he alone, he would have milked every last second of weightlessness, waited until the last possible moment to pull the brake _hard_ and laughed from the sheer rush of it.

But he wouldn’t do something like that to Sara, so he slows their descent gradually, decelerates by inches, as smooth as he can make it.

Their feet touch the ground as gently as if they were stepping off an escalator and Neal feels a flash of satisfaction that this, at least, he still has.

“If I may,” he says grandly, offering her a hand as he unclips himself from the line. She rolls her eyes but accepts it and steadies herself on her high heels as he does the same for her and then loosens the harness enough for her to slip it off.

Neal hits the button to release and retract the grapple just as Tim and Mozzie join them, the former fully absorbed by something on his phone and the latter pale and weaving slightly.

“All right?” Neal asks him, checking in, but it’s Tim who answers.

“Better than,” he says. “Check it out, I got the feed from Carlisle’s office.”

Neal cranes his neck to see the tiny screen. The resolution’s actually pretty impressive—but then again, he’d be surprised if Tim _didn’t_ have the latest WayneTech prototype—and he can clearly make out the moment when a miniature Peter reaches out and with a single finger swings open the supposedly-impenetrable safe.

“That’s— impossible.” Even through the phone’s speakers, Carlisle’s voice sounds forced, overloud.

By contrast, Peter is as mild as a lion in the sun. “Those look like the stones I was talking about.”

“Those— are mine,” Carlisle says, smile strained, clearly thinking on the spot. “You know what they say, gems are a better investment than cash.”

“Yours,” Peter repeats blandly, generously spooling out the rope for Carlisle to hang himself with. “So then you’re aware that these gems are stolen property.”

“Stolen—” Carlisle’s laugh is forced, eyes darting around desperately. “Those— They’re— I’ve never seen those in my life.”

“You're under arrest, Mr. Carlisle.”

“It’s that masked freak!” Carlisle bursts out. “He’s setting me up, he must be! It’s— Agent, this is all some sort of big misunderstanding, I assure you—”

“Hands up.”

There’s a brief moment of suspense and all Neal’s muscles tense, wondering if he could somehow make it back up there in time, but then Diana is there, backing Peter up like always, and he relaxes. It’s over.

“Looks like our work is done here,” Sara says, her smile rather fixed as she catches a still-wobbly Mozzie as he nearly overbalances into a lamppost. “I’m going to get this one into a cab before he gives himself a concussion. See you at home?”

“Yeah,” Neal replies, grinning like a lovestruck schoolboy. _Home_. “Thanks, Sara.”

“If he throws up on me, you’re paying the dry cleaning!” she throws over her shoulder, and then they’re gone and it’s just the two of them.

They both seem to realize it at the same time, and then there’s a moment of awkward silence before Tim coughs and says, “So that actually… worked out pretty well.”

“You doubted me?” Neal asks, a little amused despite himself.

Tim shrugs. “Guess not. I should say thank you, though. For everything.”

“My pleasure.” And he means it. For all the… little emotional hang-ups, the kid is (perhaps unsurprisingly) comfortable to work with. Similar styles, and all that. “We’re not done quite yet, though. We still need to deal with the kryptonite.”

Tim nods. “I thought about that, but if it disappears from evidence so soon after the arrest, it could seriously jeopardize the conviction. I’ve got a contact over at A.R.G.U.S., they should be able to get it back without raising too many flags—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Neal says, catching the kid's shoulder and forcing him to turn and look at him. “What are you talking about?”

Tim squints at him. “What are _you_ talking about?”

“I’m talking about you turning all the kryptonite you _stole_ in to the FBI!” Something cold and hot is creeping up the back of his neck and he has a terrible feeling that he knows where this is going.

Sure enough, Tim actually _scoffs_. “Are you kidding me? You can’t seriously think I’m going to hand 14 kilograms of kryptonite over to the FBI.”

“What, because they can’t handle it?” Neal bites out. “Because the League did _such_ a good job keeping it safe.”

He thinks about Peter’s tirade against vigilantes— not heroes, just vigilantes.

“If you want the authorities to take you seriously, to work with you, then you need to work with them,” he says. “Not every cop’s a Jim Gordon. They can’t just take it on faith. If you want their respect, you have to earn it.”

“We _do_ earn it,” Tim—no, _Robin_ , he’s Robin through and through right now—says stubbornly. “By _catching the bad guys_. That’s what we do. That’s why I’m here in the first place, not to hand over a load of kryptonite to a bunch of civilians—”

Neal actually barks out a laugh. “Are you serious right now? This is the FBI. _You_ are the civilian here. A very _dangerous_ civilian, but that’s not the point. And if we were just talking about you being in New York, I might actually believe the whole ‘catching the bad guy’ thing. But— here?”

He gestures roughly, encompassing Carlisle’s building, the grapples now tucked back in Robin’s bag, all all the other unspoken things that no one but the two of them could see.

Robin’s still meeting his eyes evenly, but the—defiance, if Neal can call it that, has changed. More guarded. One might almost call it defensive _._

“And don’t give me all that stuff about needing help,” Neal continues. “You and I both know that the security was _nothing_ — You didn’t need us to get up there, or to open that stupid safe. Hell, you didn’t need this whole _charade_ in the first place. All that stuff about him not knowing it was kryptonite and his connection to Luthor— If you _really_ just wanted his source, you could have just dangled him off a roof or something until he told you. Don’t pretend like it didn’t cross your mind. It’s been ten years and it’s still the first thing _I_ thought of.” He pauses, breathing hard. “So really, _Rob_ , what are you doing here? Is this some kind of test?”

“No!” Robin denies. His body language is tight and, yes, _defensive_. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” And he’s really asking. “What do you _want_ from me?”

There’s a perfect still moment where Tim is still _staring_ at him and he _still_ can’t read the expression on that too-young face because no matter how much this whole debacle has been a trip down memory lane, he shouldn’t have for one second forgotten that _he’s not one of them_ anymore—

“Neal!”

He can’t help it; it’s become so ingrained, now, hearing that name in that voice, and his attention only flickers to the approaching shape of Peter Burke for an instant, but it’s enough.

By the time he looks back, Robin is gone like he’d never been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was first thinking of reasons for Tim to need to work with Neal that wouldn't seem ridiculously forced, I was having a hard time. The end result was chapter 8, _Of A Feather,_ and it was workable at least. But as I was going through the actual heist for this chapter, I kept thinking: _Ok, so why the heck couldn't Tim just do this himself?_ And then I thought, _Well, of course he could._ I know, Tim would know it, Neal/Dick would know it, literally everyone and their grandma would know it. And isn't that just the point? Tim could do it on his own, but he's choosing not to. And once Neal/Dick lets himself realize that, it's the 'why' that's gonna press every paranoid button in his dysfunctional little head.
> 
> Also: Prudence. Don't even ask me what's going on with the timeline for her to have met Tim already, but-- I couldn't help myself. She cracks me up.
> 
> Next time:
> 
> Neal Caffrey, role model? Now there's the _real_ nightmare.


	12. Identification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, guys. Just shit. A month later, and here we finally are. Thanks for sticking it out.

 

**_identification:_ **

  1. **the action or process of identifying someone or something ; the fact of being identified**
  2. **documentation or other proof of identity or credential**
  3. **a person's sense of unity (as in spirit, outlook, or principle) with someone or something**
  4. **(psychology) the process by which an individual unconsciously endeavors to pattern himself after another**



 

* * *

 

All children, but one, grow up.

That _one_ dresses up in a cape and a pointy cowl and punches out his insecurities.

The rest of them have to deal with things like _consequences_ , and _adult relationships_ , and now, on top of all that, _being a good gosh-darn role model_.

Yeah, and that one’s going _so great_ right about now.

Peter’s kind enough to wait until they’re back at the office, waiting on empty report after empty report, to corner him where he’s leaning on the railing outside Peter’s office.

“Any sign of Alvin?” Neal asks, already knowing the answer.

Peter settles next to him at the railing, and though he would have every right to be angry, to be frustrated that Neal let the kryptonite (and, as far as he knows, the thief) slip right through his fingers— well, it’s _Peter_.

After everything he’s done, in this life and the last, he sometimes wonders what he possibly could have done to deserve a Peter.

And, of course, one of the best things about a Peter is that he doesn’t bother to dance around things. In the Peter Burke Book of Life, truth is truth is truth, and no pretty lies or evasions can ever best that.

For someone who lives so many lies, honesty like that— well, it’s like a breath of fresh air to someone who’s been living on recycled oxygen.

“Nothing,” Peter confirms. “He’s gone completely to ground.”

It’s stupid to feel disappointed. It’s stupid to feel betrayed. He hadn’t expected anything from Ti— from Robin, and Robin had never made him any promises.

“I screwed up,” he admits to the railing.

And because the Peter Burke Book of Truth includes not pulling any punches, Peter doesn’t hesitate to tell him, “Yes, you did. But,” and here his expression stretches, exaggerated, to make his point, “You helped get Carlisle off the streets. That’s a good win.”

He’s not wrong, but that was never the game Neal was playing—not _really_ —and they both know it.

“I actually thought I was getting through to him,” Neal says, still talking to the railing. It’s a very nice railing, and a much easier confessor than Special Agent Peter Burke, who can sniff out all his lies but the most important ones. “I thought… I thought he _understood_.”

Peter chuckles. “Disappointing, isn’t it? You think they're listening, and then they go off and do the opposite of what you say.”

Neal can’t help but laugh, just a little. He’s self-aware enough to see the irony in this, even if the punchline _he_ knows is different from the one _Peter’s_ seeing.

And maybe it is for the best— Regardless of what Sara might think, of all the role models in a fledgling Robin’s life, the bird who threw _himself_ out of the nest can hardly be counted as one of the good ones, can he?

“Carlisle’s talking,” Peter says after a moment. “But I don’t think we’re going to get much of use. He’s insisting that he doesn’t know who the supplier is, that they only ever met once and the guy was wearing a mask. I’ve got Jones with him, going through the Cape Catalogue, but so far nothing.”

Neal raises a brow at him. “The ‘Cape Catalogue’?” he mimics. “Really?”

Peter shrugs, but the tips of his ears are ruddy. “When the bad guys are actually running around in Halloween masks and footie pajamas, you need _some_ way to keep track of them,” he grumbles. “And it isn’t really a catalogue these days, anyways. More like a database. Not that I think it’ll be much use here— ‘black and orange mask, no logo or symbol’ isn’t much to go on.”

Black and orange… There’s a memory, a flash of color outside Carlisle’s building, but try as he might, even Neal’s well-trained recall can’t pull any useful details.

“So we’ve got nothing,” he summarizes, too tired to even feel bitter. “No supplier, no leads, and the rest of the kryptonite’s probably halfway to the moon by now…”

Maybe even literally; if terrestrial JL security had been compromised once, what better place to keep a stash of kryptonite safe than in an orbiting Watchtower with 24/7 League presence?

“It really could,” Peter says, and something strange—indefinable—creeps into his voice. “But it’s not.”

Neal looks up.

Somehow, while he’d been absorbed in the railing, he’d completely missed the commotion by the elevators. By now, half the unit is clustered at the glass doors, watching curiously as Diana argues with a bewildered-looking delivery-boy. And there beside them, sitting innocently on the paneled floor, is—

No. Robin wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_.

If anyone understands the necessity of _subtlety_ , surely it’s Robin.

He wouldn’t have some unwitting delivery-boy parade a load of kryptonite through 26 Federal Plaza in a giant lead box with WARNING: KRYPTONITE printed on the side in six-inch-high letters. Not after all the trouble they’d gone to to keep the thefts out of the media.

Right?

“Holy Gift Horse, Batman,” he breathes, and if Peter gives him an odd look, that is literally the _least_ of his worries right now.

He shoves away from the railing and hurries down the steps. The crowd of agents parts easily—there are some upsides to being, well, _him_ —and Diana breaks off from her barrage of questions to nod at him—at both of them, since Peter is right as his side, as ever.

“The delivery fee was paid with a prepaid credit card—no name—and the driver picked it up from an empty warehouse about an hour ago,” she reports. “They checked the package downstairs, and as far as we can tell, it’s exactly what it looks like.”

“And all of the pieces are there?” Peter says sharply.

“We still have to authenticate them, but…” Diana grins. “Looks like all 18 missing pieces.”

“Hot damn!” someone calls out behind them, and Diana rolls her eyes but her smirk spreads just that much wider.

“‘Course,” she says slyly, “ _I_ can’t take credit for this one. It’s not _my_ name on the box.”

“No?” Peter plays along, but his voice is knowingly amused. “Who should we be thanking then?”

Neal ignores their childish teasing and takes that final step forward, close enough to see the container clearly.

Stuck to the lid like an inappropriately cheerful afterthought is a neon green post-it with only a few words in perfect copperplate printing that Neal would bet a Nazi treasure has absolutely zero forensic resemblance to one Timothy Drake-Wayne’s natural handwriting.

 

C/o NEAL CAFFREY

FBI WHITE COLLAR DIVISION; NEW YORK OFFICE

21ST FLOOR

26 FEDERAL PLAZA

NEW YORK, NY

10278

 

For a second he’s not sure _what_ to feel, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and Peter’s voice at his ear.

“Looks like he was listening after all.”

 

* * *

 

He’s not entirely sure how he makes it through the rest of the work day, all the paperwork and the bemused questions and the decidedly more pointed questions without breaking character. The cab ride home (he slips out before Peter can offer him a lift—him and Peter, confined space? _Not_ the best idea right now) gives him some room to collect his thoughts, but not nearly enough to be able to deal with Mozzie sitting at his table with an empty bottle of one of Neal’s better vintages and some sort of… _device_ in pieces on a cloth roll in front of him.

Neal doesn’t even pause, just snags the neck of the bottle as he goes by and makes a beeline straight for his eternally-depleting wine rack.

“You know, if you have to drink my wine—my _very expensive_ wine, that I buy for _myself_ —you could at least leave me a bottle or two of the good stuff.”

Mozzie scoffs a little, not looking up from his…project. “Like you actually care,” he says, and Neal stares at him. It’s the kind of little comment that makes him wonder, sometimes.

Neal Caffrey has a taste for the finer things. No one ever questions that; it’s part of what makes him who he is. It’s built into his character.

But Mozzie has sharp eyes and sharp ears and he knows _Neal_ better than maybe anyone else in the world. Knows his tells, knows his tells for when he’s faking his tells. He knows everything that Neal’s alleged to have done, most of what he really did do, and even a few things that he hadn’t realized he’d done until after the fact. He’s probably one of the only people in the world who could look at Neal Caffrey’s character and see that it’s just that— a character.

Whether he has or not is another question. Moz has a hoarder’s appreciation for secrets that would rival even the KGB. If he knows something and he doesn’t want you to know he knows, you’ll never know.

Neal looks away, down to where he’s still fiddling with the neck of the empty bottle. “I wanted to apologize,” he says, “for earlier. For springing… _that_ on you like that. That wasn’t fair of me. I’m sorry.”

“The Justice League, you mean,” Mozzie says evenly. “You’re sorry… for springing _the Justice League_ on me.”

“It wasn’t actually—” Neal starts and then stops himself.

This is supposed to be an _apology_ , he reminds himself.

“Yes,” he admits, daring a quick glance up at his friend. Mozzie has leaned back from the table, his hands laced over his stomach, studying him from behind his glasses. “For the Justice League. For not telling you about the kryptonite before getting you involved. I know how much effort you put into staying under the radar, and I was so— caught up in my own stuff, that I didn’t think about how it would affect anyone else. I’m really sorry, Moz.”

He closes his eyes and waits for Mozzie to yell at him, to storm out of the apartment, to tell him that he’s ruined this too.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, when he opens his eyes again, Mozzie’s face is pinched up in something like concern.

“Mon frère,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn, wide eyes only magnified behind his thick lenses. “You need to be careful. You don’t want to go getting involved in mask business. It never ends well.”

Neal blinks. “I’m not— I’m not _getting involved_ in anything,” he protests. “It was a one-time thing. He needed our help, and the kryptonite was dangerous. Nobody wants that on the street.”

“Hmm,” Mozzie says, unconvinced.

“Look, I doubt we’ll see him again anyways,” Neal says. “So that’s the end of it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Mozzie inclines his head, and Neal spins in his seat to find Tim in the open doorway, hand hesitantly raised to knock.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t want to interrupt. I can come back.”

“No,” Mozzie says, rising with wineglass in hand. “I’ll leave you two to… talk. Or whatever it is you do. I’ll bid thee goodnight, _mon frère_ — and your fledgling protégé, of course. _Adieu!_ ”

“Um, bye,” Tim says, as Mozzie sweeps dramatically by, only stumbling a little bit on the doorframe. “Is he—”

“—always like that?” finishes Neal. “That was pretty subdued. I think he’s still a little intimidated by you. The whole assassin thing. You know.”

“Oh.” Tim glances back over his shoulder and then seems to let it go. “I really didn’t mean to impose. I just wanted to drop by, you know, and say thanks.”

“It was nothing,” Neal dismisses. He leans back against the wine rack, takes a deep breath, and allows himself to be Dick Grayson. It’s really not as much of a shift as he’d thought it was. “You want something to drink?”

“You know I’m not legal yet.” Tim edges hesitantly into the apartment, like he hadn’t spent nearly an entire afternoon there, planning illegal activities. He lowers himself cautiously into the chair that Mozzie had so recently vacated, peers at the… device in front of him, and then very carefully does not touch it.

“I was thinking water or something,” Dick says, amused. “But if you _wanted_ wine, I’m hardly going to narc.”

“Water’s fine,” Tim says firmly. “Thank you.”

Dick fills a glass from the tap and leaves it in front of him. At some point, he’d finally removed his sunglasses and hooked them over the collar of his t-shirt.

He has blue eyes, Dick notes. With his eyes, and his hair, he looks like he could be B’s blood son.

And in the same vein, but for a bit of a difference in coloring, it would be easy for someone to look at the two of them together and mistake them for brothers.

“There you go,” he says, forcing a smile. “Let me know if you change your mind on the wine.”

“Sure,” says Tim, glancing up over the rim of his glass in a way that probably means he’s teasing. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Dick takes the opportunity to _actually_ pour himself a glass of wine this time, mostly so that he has an excuse to be half-turned away when he casually comments, “I heard that the rest of the kryptonite was anonymously turned in to the FBI earlier.”

“Was it?” Tim says innocently. “Well, I’m sure they’ll take good care of it. Though I think the Justice League might still offer them some help with disposing of it safely.”

“I’m sure,” Dick agrees, amused in spite of himself. “But I just want you to know— I think you made the right choice. And I appreciate it.”

Tim’s eyes flick to him and away quickly, cheeks tinged faintly pink. He does that a lot, Dick’s noticed.

“It’s… You had some good points,” he says, fiddling with the glasses in his hands. “And it’s your city, anyways.”

That’s part of the vigilante mindset, too, that possessiveness. Territoriality.

But he’s not going to argue Tim’s self-justifications when it achieved exactly the effect he’d barely let himself hope for.

“So, uh.” He changes the subject, admittedly somewhat less than gracefully. “How did you get into all this, anyway? I mean, no offense, but I’d know better than anyone, this job is kind of cursed.”

Tim smiles, a little wry, a little bitter. “I volunteered, actually.”

Dick accepts that politely enough— after all, hadn’t they all? The Bat might be a lot of things, but a slavedriver, he is not. He would never make a kid do this (if anything, the opposite— he’d let them choose it, let them _need_ it, and then tear it away).

But Tim’s still talking; “I lived next door to you guys, actually. You probably don’t remember.”

“Not personally,” Dick admits, “But I did my research. Your folks traveled a lot, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they did.”

Dick frowns. There’s some strange energy in the way he’d said it, some subtext Dick’s not quite getting.

“Anyways,” Tim continues. “I was, uh... Well, I was kind of a big fan of you— you guys. Batman and Robin, you know. I was kind of obsessed? Like, I recorded every time you were on TV and watched it over and over again. And then one night I was watching some footage of a fight you had with, like, Freeze, and I saw— something familiar.”

There is absolutely no reason a chill should steal over him, but there’s some things that stick with you even years later. “Did you,” he says evenly. The Secret—which isn’t really even _his_ secret anymore—and ten years later, it’s still like dragging fingernails down a blackboard to think that someone could have rumbled them.

Tim jerks a shoulder a little, looking almost embarrassed. “I’m pretty sure if I’d been any older, I’d have rationalized it away, you know? Convinced myself it was coincidence. But I was pretty little. Still young enough to— well, I don’t think I ever actually believed in Santa, but you know what I mean. I saw it, and it was like I just _knew_ , you know? And as soon as I knew, it was so easy to put everything together.”

“Jesus,” Dick says, leaning back in his chair, trying to imagine an even younger, pointier Tim figuring out The Secret all by himself. “What is it about nine-year-olds that they’re, like, the bane of Batman’s secret identity?”

“Oh, I wasn’t—” Tim cuts himself off, a little red in the face.

“Younger?” Dick says, impressed in spite of himself, shaving even a few more years off his mental picture. If he’d been the original _Boy Wonder_ , he’s not even sure what that makes Tim. “Obviously, you kept your mouth shut.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “Not that it was hard. Who would’ve believed me? But, um, then—”

He hesitates and Dick can fill in the rest of the sentence.

“Then Robin disappeared,” he says so that Tim doesn’t have to.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “You both—both of you? Both of the yous? Whatever, you were gone, and everyone was saying different things about what happened to you, and Bru—”

“Don’t,” Dick says sharply and Tim smoothly redirects.

“—and the only guy who knew, well, he wasn’t exactly going to talk about it with anyone. Robin was just gone.”

“And then,” and the hesitance is back, “then all of a sudden, he’s back. Robin. But it wasn’t you.

“I mean, it wasn’t hard to figure out who it was. I don’t know how closely you—”

“I know about Jason Todd,” Dick interrupts before Tim can try and be _tactful_.

One of the few indulgences he’d allowed himself, in those first few months after, was reading the gossip rags. Even if half of what they printed was trash and speculation, it was still proof that He was alive, that life in Gotham was still ticking on as usual without him. He’d watched the whole saga with the Todd kid unfold with a certain amount of detachment, but not without sympathy; the kid had deserved better than to have to try to step into the fucked-up pixie boots that Dick had left behind, and he _certainly_ deserved better than to end up six feet under for it.

“Yeah, um,” Tim’s looking shifty again, in that way that Dick’s pretty sure means he’s editing something. “So anyways, Br— Batman took it pretty bad when he lost you, but after Jason— Dick, he just _broke_. He was—brutal. We don’t really talk about it, but I’m pretty sure he was actually, like, suicidal. It was... bad.”

Dick tries to imagine it, but he can’t. A broken Batman, that he can see, because B was already so broken in so many ways, but a Batman who was ready to just... stop fighting? That’s not who he is.

But he doesn’t think Tim’s lying or exaggerating. If anything, he’s downplaying, Dick’s sure of it. Bats is a _go-big-or-go-dress-as-a-giant-bat-and-declare-a-one-man-war-on-crime_ kind of guy, after all.

“That still doesn’t explain how you got wrapped up in all of this,” he says.

Tim looks at him, head canted a little like he doesn’t quite see what’s left to explain. “After you disappeared, he only really started getting better when Jason showed up,” he says slowly. “Having Jason as Robin made him better. And then you were gone and Jason was dead and he was— he was going off the rails, and things were getting bad. Gotham needed Batman. And Batman needed a Robin. So,” and he shrugs a little, “I became Robin.”

Dick frowns. “And what, that’s it? The first two Robins get all kinds of fucked up, and he just turns around and signs up number three?”

“Um,” and this time it’s _definitely_ shifty.

Dick leans back very, very carefully in his seat and looks Tim full in the face. “Um?” He prompts, when Tim doesn’t seem inclined to resume on his own.

“Well.” And Tim pauses again, like he’s going to leave it there.

“ _Well_?”

“He didn’t want another Robin,” Tim says all in a rush. “At all. Ever. Ba— Batgirl tried to convince him, Alfred tried to convince him, but he wouldn’t budge.”

_That_ , on the other hand, is perfectly believable. If there’s one thing Dick knows about the Big Bad Bat, it’s that his superpower is pure, unmitigated _stubbornness_.

“So how’d you change his mind?” Dick asks, genuinely interested.

Tim traces the rim of his water glass, then all in one motion throws back the last swallow like it’s hard liquor ( _you know I’m not legal yet_ his arse. If Tim hasn’t been sneaking the good stuff out of B’s liquor cabinet, then Dick will eat his vintage, beaver-felt trilby).

“Actually,” he says, “ _I_ didn’t. It was Jason.”

Oh. That’s—

“Okay,” he says neutrally. Tim’s gaze is fixed outwards, on something only he can see.

“I mean, I tried to convince him for _years_ ,” Tim says. “I followed him to crime scenes, helped him in fights, dragged him home a few times when he got hurt too badly to drag himself to the Batmobile— heck, I even broke into the Cave and stole one of Jason’s old suits!”

Dick can’t help the puzzled frown at that one, and for once, Tim seems to notice.

“Okay, maybe that last one didn’t help my case too much,” he admits, “but I was trying! I studied everything I could about criminology and forensics, I trained with Babs and Huntress and Jean-Paul and the Birds of Prey even let me tag along a couple of times! But nothing I did changed his mind. And then… well, everything that happened with the Red Hood… _happened_.”

Dick lost track of this conversation about three vigilantes ago, so he just makes an encouraging noise and hopes that Tim isn’t expecting any more substantial input on his end.

“I’m still not 100% sure _why_ Jason did it, but he left this message, and— Well, your name came up a couple of times too. I think… No, I _know_ how important Robin was to him, and I used to think it was just the role, you know, being part of it all and being accepted, but now I think maybe there was more to it than that. The whole… legacy thing.” Tim huffs a laugh. “And obviously he also got to piss B off in the process which, when I think about it, was probably the real reason for the whole thing.”

Tim is very confident speaking about a boy that he never, as far as Dick is aware, would have met.

Or maybe he had— they wouldn’t have been _that_ far apart in age. If the Drakes really were high society, had they met at one of those innumerable parties? Hidden out on the balcony, mocking the stuffy rich people? Had they been in school together, maybe?

Had they been friends? Two Lost Boys together, even if their respective stays in Neverland had little overlap?

“Anyways,” Tim says, refocusing. “That was about… two years ago, now? Two and a half, maybe? Since it was official, anyways. And now I’m here.”

“Now you’re here,” Dick echoes, raising his glass a fraction in a mock toast. “Full circle, huh?”

Tim does this funny little head-duck at that, not quite meeting his eyes, and—

No.

No, that’s a ridiculous thought.

But there is the blushing, the suspiciously careless secret-identity dropping, the uncharacteristic willingness to trust a convicted _criminal_ …

_(unless, just maybe, Tim doesn’t see a criminal when he looks at him)_

Tim had said it himself, hadn’t he? He’d been a _fan_.

Maybe Sara—and yes, Peter too, he supposes—were onto more than he realized with the whole ‘role model’ thing.

Which is both incredibly worrying and, in some strange, unexpected way, almost… endearing?

It’s like that itching need he’d felt, perched on the side of Carlisle’s building, to check and double-check Tim’s line and harness even though, logically, he knew that the kid was more than capable of doing it himself. He’d done the same for Sara and Mozzie, yes, because they were his friends, but more than that, because they were genuinely inexperienced. He never would have dared pull the same thing on Alex. Or, God forbid, _Keller_ , back when they’d worked together.

And Tim was undoubtedly more competent than all of them put together, to have survived such a dangerous life for so long. More competent than Dick himself, in fact, if that’s the metric they’re using.

And still, there’s some part of him that sees this dangerous, underage vigilante and wants—

—well, to mess up that clumsily-gelled hair, for starters. Demand to know if anyone ever thought to take him blind-folded train-surfing. Tie him down and force him to eat something other than the Hot Pockets and energy drinks that he knows teenage boys live off of.

_(He knows what it looks like when someone is getting adequate rest and nutrition to maintain the kind of physique that Tim has, and this is not it.)_

Whatever this impulse is, it doesn’t seem like something that’s going to help him keep the whole promise of non-involvement that he’d given Moz, so he carefully takes these confusing new feelings and wraps them away, next to all the things that _Neal Caffrey_ can’t afford to think, or feel, or remember.

And it’s good timing too, because in the next second, Tim sets his shoulders back and says, apropos of nothing, “I know about Two-Face.”

Well.

Never let it be said that B’s latest protege hasn’t inherited his… _exceptional_ sense of tact.

Exceptional in the sense that people quite often _take exception_ to it.

Suddenly all those inexplicable urges to ruffle his hair and give him The Girl Talk—or The Boy Talk, Dick’s openminded—are significantly dampened.

“I know what he did to you,” Tim specifies, and that clarification is enough for anyone with a brain to infer that Tim _also_ knows what _he_ did to _Two Face_. “I know that Batman fired you, and that you ran away. And…” He hesitates, and then, more quietly: “I know about Vengeance Academy.”

Of course he does. He’s a _Bat_. Who needs omniscience when you have invasive background research and surveillance and an overall lack of regard for personal boundaries?

Plus, after everything that happened with Two Face, Batman was probably physically incapable of _not_ investigating, so there is no doubt a nice thick case report on Dick Grayson’s great fall from grace sitting snugly in the Batcomputer’s archives.

“Then I guess you already know everything important,” he says, bitterness thick on his tongue and he can’t even blame it on the tannins. “I’m not exactly an act you want to follow.”

The most lost of the Lost Boys, and he’s certainly the last person who will ever forget it.

“That’s not true,” Tim says, but he sounds uncomfortable, on-the-spot, and if there’s anything Dick is looking forward to less than having to listen to the kid list off his many failures, it’s having to listen to the kid try and _excuse_ them out of some sense of… what? Pity? Obligation? Conversational propriety?

Well, probably not that last one.

“Look, just forget it,” Dick says, forcing back a smile. “Ancient history, right? _You’re_ Robin now, and from what I hear, you’re doing a pretty good job. I’m sure your folks would be proud.”

He has no idea, actually, how Tim’s parents would have felt about his extracurriculars, but figures it’s probably a pretty safe bet. After all, they’d died _after_ he’d already been Robin—or had been _attempting_ to be Robin, at least—and surely even the most unobservant of parents must have noticed that, at least? And they’d let him keep at it (which, if he’d had any other kind of upbringing himself, might have cast some aspersions on their parenting, but— glass houses).

Tim’s expression flickers slightly, but before Dick can worry he’s misstepped, it smooths into something wistful. “I hope so. And… I know that yours would be too.”

Dick sucks a breath in, hard, but he doesn’t even have time to respond, because Tim is slipping a hand somewhere inside his voluminous sweatshirt and his instincts, his stupid instincts that still won’t _shut up_ no matter how many years he spends forcibly repressing, tell him _move - throw the glass - use the distraction to get inside his reach - disarm - knee to the solar plexus - submission hold-_

He doesn’t listen, of course, not least because as soon as he engages his rational, _non-vigilante_ brain, he can see that what Tim has pulled from the depths of his hoodie isn’t a blade or a gun or anything more dangerous than a piece of paper.

Which doesn’t mean it’s _not_ dangerous, but at the very least not in a way that requires immediate assault and battery against a minor.

“What have you got there?” he asks, warily.

Tim ignores him, fingering the already well-worn edges for a moment before placing it carefully on the table and sliding it over.

He sees the red and green, first. And the yellow, too, the edges of the capes fluttering out from behind their bodies, the—in retrospect—ridiculous high collars, the brightly-colored stalls that still manage to half-blur into the background.

He sees the faces second, and it’s a kick in the gut. He’d… forgotten. How beautiful she was. How bright her blue eyes were.

His mother’s eyes. Dick’s eyes.

And his father— God, he _looks_ like his father. When he was a kid, it had felt like a line, like something adults just _said_ because they thought they were supposed to.

But now, he’s probably just lucky that there aren’t many pictures floating around to start people wondering why Neal Caffrey is a dead ringer for some long-dead acrobat named John Grayson. As easy as it’s been to slip back into the skin of Dick Grayson around Tim, it’s not a name he particularly wants floating around. And certainly not where Peter might hear it.

He finally lets his gaze touch on his own childish face—so young, _God_ , had he really been so young?

He knows what day this picture was taken—how could he not? It’s burned into his memory—but until this moment, confronted with photographic proof, he hadn’t really remembered that there had been a picture-taking at all.

The details are coming back to him now, though: the family, the couple with their son, the father asking them for a picture to show the fussing little boy that there was nothing to be afraid of, that the circus was _fun_. And he’d thought it was the worst crime in the world that any kid could _not_ love the circus, that they couldn’t see that it was _the best place in the world_.

He’d swung the kid _(so tiny, barely more than a toddler)_ up and around until he was squealing with happiness. He remembers hearing his dad’s booming laugh ringing out, and his mother’s, clear and high like a bell, and something softer and more restrained that must have been the other parents. He remembers the adults—first the boy’s parents, and then his own—coaxing the little boy to look towards the camera. But no matter what they tried, those huge, round, _blue_ eyes had remained fixed on Dick’s face, hot little fingers clutching at the fabric of his collar with surprising strength and determination.

Or maybe, he thinks now, lifting his gaze to met Tim’s pale eyes, not so surprising after all.

“That’s you,” Dick says, no question. “You came to Haly’s. You were there, that night, when they— The night they died.”

“Yeah.” It’s quiet, but honest.

Another memory unfolds:

“I told you I’d do my quadruple just for you,” he recalls.

“Yeah, you did.” Tim grins a little, and it’s artless and almost shy and those inconvenient _feelings_ are back full-force. “Took a few years, but you kept your promise.”

What? “I did?”

“Sure.” Tim’s smirk is positively _puckish_ , now. “How’d you think I figured out Batman and Robin? That’s a pretty signature move, you know. Also, you didn’t really change the outfit much. Wasn’t too hard to connect the dots, once I actually started to think about it.”

…he says, like millions of conspiracy theorists and law enforcement officers and supervillians and intelligence apparatuses hadn’t tried and failed where a grade-schooler had so casually succeeded. And all based off a faded memory from a single brief encounter when he was, what, three? Younger? He’d been so _small_ …

Perhaps Mozzie’s paranoia is correct for once. This skinny teenager could be, objectively, _terrifying_ if he set his mind to it.

But instead he’s sitting in a convicted felon’s apartment, fiddling with that stupid string on his hoodie and smiling like it’s a place he actually _wants_ to be.

What a little weirdo.

“It meant a lot to me, you know,” Tim says, playing with his empty water glass, tipping it up on the edge so that it’s only the balancing force of his finger on the rim that keeps it from tipping over onto its side. “I never forgot. You were my hero even before you became Robin.” He coughs a little and lets the glass _thunk_ back upright. “Anyways. I should probably get back to Gotham before people start worrying.”

By _people_ he clearly means _Batman_ and by _worrying_ he undoubtedly means _tracking my every movement and probably pulling satellite surveillance_ , but Dick can appreciate the deflection.

“Right now?” he asks, although to be honest he’s just about hit his limit for today. For this decade, maybe.

“Might as well make an early start,” Tim says, which would sound incredibly stupid coming from any other sixteen-year-old at eight o’clock in the evening if Dick didn’t already know the schedule he keeps isn’t exactly diurnal.

Somehow, Tim’s sunglasses have magically reappeared on his face which, again, in any other context would have been pretty stupid in the middle of the night, but— yeah. Still more subtle than the red-and-black.

“What about,” Dick begins, offering back the photograph, but Tim shakes his head.

“Keep it,” he says. “I have others. And I’m guessing you don’t have many of them.”

Dick curls his fingers more tightly around the edges of the photo. He doesn’t have _any_ , in truth, and he suspects Tim knows that.

“Thanks,” he makes himself say. “And, um, I know you said— But you won’t—”

“I won’t say anything,” Tim promises. “You have my word on that. And,” he reaches into his abyss of a sweatshirt again and this time manages to produce a pen and one of those full-size day planners, in true Mary Poppins style. “Here.” He scrawls out a sloppy string of numbers and rips off the corner of the page. “I know you’re trying to stay away from… you know, the Mission and all that. But your friend is right. Even just being connected to this stuff is dangerous, even years after the fact. Just look at Sue Dibny.”

That catches his attention. “Sue Dibny? What happened to Sue Dibny? No, wait— I don’t want to know.” He remembers her vaguely but fondly, and he really, _really_ doesn’t have the energy for another painful revelation right now.

“Right,” Tim says awkwardly. “Anyways, if you ever get into… more trouble than usual, I already can guess you won’t call _him_ , but you could always call me. If, you know, you want.”

“Thanks,” Dick says again. “And… same for you. If you ever need… help.” He winces at how lame it comes out. Tim has a literal _Justice League’s_ worth of support if he needs it, plus all of the _legitimate_ WayneTech resources. What could Neal-Caffrey-slash-Dick-Grayson possibly offer him?

But to his surprise, Tim actually nods seriously. “Thank you, Dick. That means a lot.”

Great. He’s not sure how he’d ever explain _that_ one to Peter if it came to it, but— he’d made the offer, hadn’t he? He can’t exactly leave the kid high and dry now, can he? Not that it would ever come to that. He’s a teenage superhero. He can handle himself.

“I’ll see you around, then?” he says, awkwardly as Tim pauses in the doorway to double-check his civilian get-up.

Tim adjusts his glasses one last time and _smirks_ at him. “Not if I see you first.”

Scratch that. Mozzie’s paranoia is _definitely_ right this time.

 

 

 

Trouble is quite literally the _least_ of what Timothy Jackson Drake is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the end of the Scot Free arc! Certainly took long enough. So, quick opinion poll: Is Tim actually _intending_ to be an ambiguous little shit when it comes to Jason, or does it just come naturally?
> 
> Seriously, though, I wanted to include dstwsy-verse Tim's backstory _so bad_ because no way do you have two sidekicks extra-judiciously kill someone (even if the jury is still out on Jason w/ the whole Felipe Garzonas affair) and then disappear/die, and think: hey, look, here's another kid that wants this so-far-consecutively-unsuccessful job! Let's sign him up!
> 
> but luckily for Batman and Gotham and Alfred's sanity, Tim is about as stubborn and obsessive as anyone can get without being named Bruce Wayne. And as for the implications of Jason's involvement, my image is of Jason coming back on his Big Revenge Crusade all viciously, righteously furious that Bruce made _another_ Robin-- only for Bruce to say no, he's not Robin, he just follows me around and fights bad guys and puts himself in mortal danger just like you did only i don't even give him the same validation i gave you and dick. And suddenly that Will. Not. Fucking. Stand. Jason still may not be entirely sane, and he may not like Tim yet personally, but you better bet it's his godddamn Mission to make Bruce acknowledge Tim as Robin by any means necessary (which is still not a very healthy way for them to start their relationship, since Jason is still basically using him as a pawn for his own issues with Bruce, but you know what they say: you can take a boy out of the Pit, but you can't take the-- well, you know).
> 
> Now, for a little housekeeping... As always, I hate that the delays are getting longer and longer between chapters, but I am not a very fast or consistent writer, and while the general arc is planned out, I'm just about to the end of the parts of my outline where i have at least some of the scenes pre-written. So it's going to be slow. If anyone is willing to literally shout their thought and theories and opinions and whatever else at me, that actually helps me so much. So thanks again to everyone who commented, and I hope to have some more for all you fabulous readers before too long.
> 
>  
> 
> Next time:
> 
> There is no universe in which hiding stolen Nazi treasure ends well. Literally none.


	13. Zero Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no universe in which hiding stolen Nazi treasure ends well. Literally none.

Trouble trumps trouble.

If there was one upside to the stress and second-guessing and paranoia of Tim’s untimely arrival, it was that the dreams that had plagued him since the whole Fowler mess and then the fear gas attack had finally taken a backseat to this most recent drama of his life.

 

 

 

Of course, that just means that as soon as it’s all resolved, as soon as he starts feeling something approaching _good_ about the whole thing, they come rushing back.

With a Vengeance.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s sitting in a warehouse.

It’s not a very... nice warehouse, if such a thing exists among run-down, abandoned warehouses. The concrete floor is more pitted and cracked than an active minefield, a few of the so-called ‘support’ beams have cracked free from their housings and slump carelessly to the ground, the corrugated roll-up doors are jammed half-open. It is, in fact, exactly the kind of place that anyone living in a city less criminally theatrical than Gotham would consider a perfect hideout for a dangerous criminal.

And as such, this being Gotham, it’s therefore genuinely abandoned and of little interest to the more serious criminal element.

The grungy aesthetic is all well and good, but rather a headache if your hideout legitimately collapses before the local vigilante can stumble into your diabolical trap.

Besides, it’s _Gotham_. There are plenty more abandoned banks, slaughterhouses, amusement parks, and novelty-good factories free for the taking, and plenty of shady brokers not only willing but eager to help you find a lair that is much more on theme. Whatever your specific theme may be.

And so, places like this tend to serve as temporary boltholes for low level scum and gangbangers, or—more often—a somewhat dubious refuge for the city’s endless unfortunates.

He wasn’t there when the others found this particular cesspool, but he can’t help but notice that Boone’s knuckles are bloody again after they’d finally closed up earlier, and his grin has that particular curl of smugness that he gets whenever he gets to humiliate someone less skilled than him.

Dick hopes he just beat the shit out of some drug runners or something, but for all that they’ve lived and trained together for almost a month now, he doesn’t know the other boy well enough to have figured out where he draws the line.

If he _has_ a line.

But that’s a necessary sacrifice; he doesn’t know them, and they... don’t know him.

It’s safer that way. For everyone involved.

Someone passes him a bottle and he takes a swig without daring to so much as hesitate.

It’s lucky that he’s been sneaking sips of Alfie’s ‘medicinal’ whiskey for years, or he’d be choking crappy tequila up all over the filthy warehouse and the four other juvenile delinquents therein.

(It’s also pretty lucky that Alfie picked up truly crap taste in whiskey during his army days. The occasional tumbler of B’s million-dollar scotch probably wouldn’t have had the same desensitizing effect.)

He can’t, however, quite manage to keep a straight face as he forces himself to swallow, and there’s an explosion of sound as the other boys burst into loud guffaws. Someone slaps him hard enough on the back that all that hard work at not spewing nearly goes to waste.

“Look at his face!” someone snickers, and someone else mocks, not quite good-naturedly, “Whassamatter, Fredrick? Too much for you?”

Dick forces his throat to swallow and gasps out his most scathing, “Screw you, Salvatore.”

“Fuck you, man, I told you, it’s _Vader_.”

“Yeah, and I told you— it’s Freddy.”

“Whatever, man.”

It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that these boys—who laugh and swear and dare each other with swigs of stolen tequila and call themselves after sci-fi villains—are killers all.

That’s why Shrike chose them, after all. Because they’re clever, yes, and desperate, and young enough to still be malleable, but also because they’re dangerous. All of them.

One of them—Lo, maybe, or Raul—hoists the bottle up in the air.

“To Vengeance fucking Academy!” and it’s sloppy and too-loud and aggressive and he knows better than to stay quiet when the others howl like the civilized savages that they are.

The five of them: Vader and Lo and Raul and Boone and Freddy who is Dick and was Robin and is still ten years away from being Neal.

Dick looks straight up and meets the eyes watching him from across the ragged little circle, who’s watching him (always watching him, always waiting for that sign of weakness, the sign that shows he’s not Good Enough).

Boone winks at him and smirks and doesn’t even seem to notice the blood dripping off his unblemished knuckles—

Neal jerks awake in his own bed. The light t-shirt he’d worn to bed sticks to his sweaty skin as his chest heaves. Sara hardly stirs, just mumbles a bit and cuddles deeper into her pillow, as he carefully eases out of bed.

In all this time, his stretching routine is one thing that has never changed; he still does the same sets in the same sequences just like his dad taught him, just like his _dad’s_ dad had taught _him_ , and presumably just like his dad’s dad’s _dad_ had taught _him_ , a line stretching back through generations of Graysons. It’s a comforting continuity.

Plus, the physical exertion helps, after a dream like that. Like yoga; he focuses on the burn in his muscles, and he can almost forget the scent of meat and old pennies that lingers on his tongue.

Almost.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Sara says from behind him, and if he weren’t wrapped in on himself like a pretzel, he probably would have jumped out of his skin. “I had no idea you were so flexible.”

Her voice is sleepily amused, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity there too. They’ve been dating almost five months now, and they’re each aware of how carefully compartmentalized their relationship is; they talk about work, about past adventures (legal and not), about art and music and food and the places they want to visit. They don’t talk about the way that Neal will catch himself halfway through a lie— never for a reason, just because it’s habit. They don’t talk about how Sara carefully packs away anything that even smacks of vulnerability. Since that night in the library, they don’t talk about families, or pasts, or the ghosts that linger.

He can tell, sometimes, when he displays some previously unknown skill, that she’d like to ask, but she doesn’t. Neither of them wants to disturb the comfortable equilibrium.

And it _is_ comfortable; it’s comfortable and fun and exciting and playful and deep and caring all at once.

“This is the third night in a row,” Sara says, and maybe her tone is a little blunt, not the doting, well-intentioned concern that someone like Elizabeth Burke would show, but then again, Sara is most certainly not Elizabeth

Burke. Her edges are sharper, her independence more fiercely guarded. Not that El isn’t independent, but she doesn’t have to constantly defend her right to it the way that Sara, as one of the few women in a high-stakes, male-dominated field, does.

Living in that kind of headspace 24/7 changes your views on certain things—as a certain ground-breaking, bird-themed child vigilante could certainly attest—and really, Neal appreciates that Sara clearly doesn’t think he needs coddling.

Because he doesn’t.

“Just a little stressed,” he says, shrugging enough that her hand slips from his shoulder, but not so much that she thinks he’s shrugging _her_ off. “Work stuff, you know.”

Much like Peter—and Kate, for that matter—Sara seems to have a built-in Neal Caffrey Bullshit-Detector.

“Nice try,” she says, “But you literally just told me last night that the only case on your docket right now is _mail fraud_. So what’s really on your mind?”

Neal hesitates, just for a second, but she notices and backtracks immediately.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me. I just— You’re ruining my beauty sleep here, Caffrey, and I thought maybe you might want to... talk about it.”

The awkwardness of the offer makes it even more endearing, somehow. And... he doesn’t want to lie to her. Especially not after everything she did help him, them, with Tim’s little green problem. And all with the apparently resigned understanding that she wasn’t going to get a _real_ explanation anytime soon.

But that also means that she wouldn’t really understand what haunts his dreams and he still can’t tell her. Even if maybe he’d like to. Just once.

So he falls back on an old stand-by; sharing a tiny part of the truth that is 100% accurate but only tangentially relevant to the matter under scrutiny.

“The FBI closed the case on the gas attack,” he says, and the words are genuinely bitter on his tongue.

“You mean the fear gas thing? I thought they were still looking for suspects.”

The attack had come up somehow during the search for Adler, the long evenings of searching and frustration and sexual tension that had bloomed into something more... but they hadn’t been together, then, and they haven’t revisited the subject since, to Neal’s recollection, so he’s mildly surprised she knows even that much.

“Like they actually spent any time _looking_ for suspects,” Neal scoffs. “The ‘experts’ investigating decided from the start that _obviously_ Scarecrow is the _only_ criminal in the world who could get his hands on fear gas, so why bother investigating further? I’m surprised they stretched it out this long.”

“But you think the real culprit’s still out there,” Sara deduces. “And now you’re having nightmares every night. Do you think he might come after you again?”

“No.” Neal dismisses that easily. “Don’t worry about that. If there was someone after me, they would have struck again by now. It’s just—”

—a travesty of justice.

—a disgrace to all those who consider themselves investigators.

_—really_ damn annoying.

“Hard?” Sara tries, and it’s as good a word as any, so he agrees and somehow they manage to leave it at that.

Besides— now that she’s brought up his _flexibilty_ , it’s only fair he gives her a more... _thorough_ demonstration.

It’s his professional pride at stake, after all.

 

* * *

 

It takes a very special kind of woman to juggle a high-stakes career and a relationship with a man whose mask is more real than his face.

Especially when that career is as a white collar bounty hunter—that is, _insurance recovery specialist_ and that man is the thief who stole the piece you were supposed to have recovered in the first place.

Sara Ellis, though, manages to pull it off with style.

Until she can’t anymore.

( _Neal, you live in the clouds... And I live on West 69th._ )

He doesn’t blame her—he could never blame her, not for this, not when it was _his_ choices, _his_ cowardice that made their careful balance… untenable.

( _I guess you figured out everything I have to offer._ )

Maybe the treasure really is cursed.

( _Caffrey…_ ** _Please_** _take care of yourself._ )

He doesn’t even care about the treasure, not really. He’s given up greater fortunes before, and it’s never really been about the money. But when Peter had come storming up to him, accusing him of something that he genuinely had not been involved in, while another man’s blood was still cooling on the wharf ( _your fault,_ whispered that little voice, _how many skeletons is that in your closet now, killer?_ )— he’d drawn the line.

For all that talk about partners, about how he knows that Neal is a good person, still the only thing that Peter sees when he looks at him is a criminal.

Well, who is Neal to disappoint?

So when he found out that Mozzie had taken the art, right out from under everyone’s noses, it felt like poetic justice.

He’d meant it when he’d told Mozzie to ready a plane. What was there, really, tying him to New York?

The people, he’d thought, but— Clearly, he’d been wrong.

In the end, Neal Caffrey was just another mask to be left behind.

And if it had been a little bit of a relief to sacrifice their escape for Jones’ life and then to have the excuse of the manifest, well… even the best performers got attached to roles. Old routines and all that.

And—he’ll admit—he might’ve let himself get a little bit carried away in his anger. Peter is a complicated person, but he’s not a liar and he’s not a performer. If he says something, it’s because he means it. There’s at least some part of Peter that truly does see Neal as a partner and a friend and a good man.

But now he’s got himself stuck on the fence between the two roles he’s written himself, unable to fully abandon either. How can he let Peter down, after all he’s done for him, all the times he’s stuck his neck out? But at the same time, how can he stay, knowing that Peter, on the flimsiest evidence, will turn on him? He’s always played Neal Caffrey as the thief with a heart of gold, but after all these years, which is stronger? The heart? Or the gold?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s not sure he knows who he is.

But that’s a question he’s been struggling with his whole life.

There was a time when the answer had seemed easy— he was a Flying Grayson, his father’s son, his mother’s Robin.

And then he wasn’t anymore. And suddenly all the things that he’d thought he was suddenly weren’t so simple anymore.

He’d been too young to think to ask questions and then all he had _was_ questions and no answers and no one left to ask, only the assumptions that other people made.

Growing up, he spoke English and German and Slovak and Russian and even a little Bashkir that he picked up from old Räsimä the fortune teller. The circus was like just that, all the colors of the world swirled together until you forgot that the world outside _gave_ a shit about all those little lines and divisions.

His parents spoke English to him. When it was just the two of them and his father wasn’t around to feel excluded, his mother spoke French.

(And if sometimes, when she spoke to herself, the sounds were strange, unfamiliar— she never taught him those words and he never thought to ask until it was already too late.)

After Bruce took him in, some well-meaning socialite who did missionary work in Zambia or somewhere had had to teach him that he should be offended when people called him a gypsy. He hadn’t known. It had been the only English word he’d ever learned for what he was.

He’s never felt a really strong connection to his ‘heritage’ and had pretty much abandoned it altogether when he became Neal Caffrey, but… the treasure makes him feel weird, sometimes, in a way he can’t quite explain. He knows that his father was born in Haly’s Circus, was half-blooded Rom at _most_ , but his mom… His mom had been born somewhere in France, but he thinks her family came from further east.

It wasn’t only the Jews that the Nazis targeted.

It might not be his great-grandparents’ gold or jewels or art that is hidden in a warehouse on Gansevoort street, but it might just be their blood. It’s an uncomfortable thought, so he tries not to think about it.

There are a lot of things he tries not to think about these days. The treasure, of course, and the fact that he’s 97.9% sure that Sara _knows_ , and whether or not she would tell, and what she would think if he just disappeared one day, and what _Peter_ would think if he just disappeared on day, and what _Mozzie_ would think if he _didn’t_.

It’s all just one great big mess and the time is coming where he will _have_ to make a decision and he honestly doesn’t know what decision he’ll make. The deadline has been creeping up on him for months, and Peter keeps pushing it forward, chasing every lead, any hint that might lead back to the U-boat treasure and Neal.

And then Peter calls in the big guns.

Neal walks into the office and the—to use Mozzie’s words—grand-père of the FBI’s DC Art Crimes is standing casually at his desk, greeting him like they’re old friends, smiling like they’re both in on some private joke.

It’s an act meant to unnerve him, he _knows_ , but it works; he is unnerved. Off-balance. Phillip Kramer is a name that people in his line of business conjure with, the ultimate white collar boogeyman. He’s the man whose personal attention all cons dread, not even necessarily because he himself is especially dangerous, but because it means that you have passed the point of notoriety and become a _priority_. Agent Kramer has a grandfatherly smile, a long reach, and the full weight of the federal government behind him.

And—most dangerously of all—he’s driven. Perhaps not in the same way as other Justice-seeking individuals Neal has known, but driven nonetheless.

For B, it was a mission. For Peter, it’s the job. For Kramer, it’s a career.

And while that doesn’t make him a bad person, or even a bad agent, it does mean his priorities are somewhat less… flexible than Neal is used to accommodating. Part of the reason he and Peter work so well together is because Peter cares more about justice and protecting the innocent than he does coloring inside the lines

Kramer— well, he clearly cares about justice as well, but he also cares about the methods used to get there and whether they’re in line with accepted procedure.

Or, at least, that had been Neal’s original impression. But the more time he spends in the same room as Kramer and that indulgent-edging-on-evaluating smile of his, the more off-balance he feels.

Which, seeing as Peter brought him to New York specifically to prove that Neal stole the treasure, might be the point.

(If there’s one thing Neal has learned throughout his many lives, it’s to trust his instincts. He doesn’t like the way Kramer watches him. He especially doesn’t like the way Kramer watches him when he and Peter are together. Like it’s some sort of…audition…that Neal doesn’t ever remember signing up for.)

Neither Peter nor Kramer are at all subtle about the scent that they’ve caught. If anything, they’re flaunting it, daring him to try something so that they can catch him red-handed.

And how can he pass up a challenge like that?

Of course, it would be significantly less stressful if he didn’t also have to worry about the fact that his psychopathic ex-partner/rival is back in town and determined to get his oily hands on the treasure.

Maybe it’s not a surprise that he’s been dreaming of Vengeance Fucking Academy again; if there’s anyone who would have fit in among those killers and lowlifes, it was Matthew Keller.

And now he’s hanging around New York, misleading Sara and threatening Mozzie, plotting something just as Neal is trying to pull off the most delicate heist of his entire life.

Of course, it’s a heist made significantly easier by the fact that Tim never actually asked for his grapple back after the whole Kryptonite thing. Peter is reassuringly predictable and never even realizes he’d snuck out of the holding room that Neal had been locked in to ‘keep him out of trouble’.

Peter waits until they’ve made it safely back to the FBI to actually open the package—he hasn’t forgotten the fear gas attack, even if the rest of the FBI seems content to sweep it under the rug—but his air of smug victory is practically tangible.

It’s only when Degas’ _Entrance of the Masked Dancers_ is spread out on the conference room table and Kramer is bent over it with loupe in hand that Peter betrays the slightest hint of hesitation, and Neal wonders if he’s really thought through what would happen if he ever managed to prove that Neal stole the treasure.

_Be careful what you wish for,_ Neal thinks bitingly, but of course, it never actually comes to that. Neal’s far too good at what he does.

Almost too too good; for a second he thinks he might end up in the position of having to actually prove that the forgery that he whipped up in 14 hours in his loft is not an actual, _genuine_ Degas. Curse his inconvenient sense of perfectionism.

But—luckily—Kramer actually is as good as his reputation suggests and when he confirms that it is, undeniably, a forgery, Neal (metaphorically) breathes a sigh of relief.

They’ve succeeded; the immediate threat has been defused, the status quo restored. Neal Caffrey’s life here, he thinks, with a surprisingly fierce rush of satisfaction, is safe once more.

And, he realizes, that big decision that he was so afraid of? At some point he hadn’t even noticed,it’s been made. He knows where he belongs and it’s here, in New York, helping people. With Peter and Jones and Diana and El and June and (maybe again someday, he hopes) Sara.

If Mozzie doesn’t feel like that’s a life that he wants to be part of, then— that’s his choice.

_If a plant cannot live according to its nature, it dies; and so a man._

Thoreau.

One of the first quotes that Mozzie had ever taught him when he took an inexperienced young criminal under his wing.

He can’t choose for Mozzie anymore than Mozzie should have ever tried to choose for him.

It’s for the best, he tells himself, watching his oldest friend walk out the door. The treasure will go with him and without Damocles’ sword hanging over his head, his life here in New York can go back to they way it’s supposed to be. No more running.

The stress of the day catches up to him and he allows himself the indulgence of retiring early.

Sleep finds him quickly, but it is anything but restful.

 

* * *

 

He’s in a warehouse, again.

Not the dirty, crumbling one where he and the other students snuck away to drink crappy tequila, but the bland, shadowy hangar that not one among them is stupid enough to think of as home.

This is the place where they train to be better killers, nothing more.

Anyone naive enough to forget that doesn’t last long in the Vengeance Academy.

They’re doing 2-on-1 today, Vader and Raul against Lo, who’s already bleeding from multiple points, one shoulder hanging awkwardly out of socket. Sweat is beaded at his hairline and his teeth are clenched tight with pain, but he knows better than to think an attempt at surrender would go well for him. In Vengeance Academy, the fights don’t stop until Shrike says they stop.

Or, in this case, Boone. Who’s leaning forward, almost manically intense as he watches his ‘friends’ beat each other down.

Seriously, what a creep.

Though it’s not like Lo’s completely helpless, even injured. If his own stories are to be believed, he’d been on the streets for almost a year and a half when Shrike found him, having fled his home after beating his abusive mother to death with a hockey stick. Raul and Vader have more than a few injuries of their own. The makeshift ring is streaked with ugly dark smears of blood and other, even less pleasant fluids.

“So you always been this much of a priss, huh, Caffrey?”

Somehow, in the way of dream-logic, it makes perfect sense for it to be Keller, not Boone, sitting next to him with his elbows resting on his knees. The edges of his lips are twisted up in that smug smirk as he watches the fight with every sign of enjoyment. He even has a freaking toothpick that he’s chewing on like this is some sleazy bar and the kids beating the bloody shit out of each other are just some kind of live entertainment. Like a dogfight, maybe. Keller seems like the kind of heartless SOB who’d enjoy watching a dogfight.

As Keller reaches up to dig at a particularly stubborn bit of food stuck between incisors, Neal can’t help but notice that his knuckles are bloody. Unmarked, but bloody.

“You always liked to pretend that your hands are all nice and clean, ain’t that right,” Keller drawls, flicking away some minuscule speck of food. “You always were a helluva liar, Caffrey.”

“Shut up,” Neal snaps.

Keller’s head lolls to face him and he grins nastily. “Hit a sore spot there, _Freddy_?”

“Shut up,” Neal repeats and Keller laughs.

“Aw, come on, pal, don’t be like that. It’s cute, really, this whole little fantasy you got goin’ here. Playin’ house with Agent Burke and the Missus. They kiss your boo-boos, too? Tuck you in, read you a bedtime story, tell you everything’s gonna be alright?”

“You’re not even real,” Neal tells him, but Keller ignores him.

“And all this time, here you are, keepin’ secrets, runnin’ around with the treasure, right behind Burkie’s back. Not very grateful of you.”

There’s a yelp from the ring, a nasty wet _crack_ of bone.

“Seriously, why are you even here?” Neal demands. “This place has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m here because you’re letting your guard down,” Keller snaps. “Gettin’ sloppy. Lettin’ me get to your girl? Lettin’ Burke get that close to the treasure, to tossin’ you right back in prison? The _real_ you—the you who survived _this_ monkey circus—never woulda let that happen.”

“Hey,” Neal said, vaguely offended on behalf of circuses everywhere. “That’s not—”

“That’s not even gettin’ _started_ on the whole mess with that kid,” Keller smoothly hijacks his sentence. “And, Christ, the gas— what’s it gonna _take_ , Caffrey? What’s it gonna take for you to see it?”

Dream-Keller is somehow even more intense than Real-Keller. Even with the hazy knowledge that this is all a dream, Neal feels off-kilter. “See what?”

“That you’re _just like me_ ,” Keller purrs, and maybe he’s Keller and maybe he’s Boone, Neal can’t even tell anymore. “That you’re a _killer_. You think you can just run away from that, Caffrey?”

“Seems to have worked pretty well all these years,” Neal retorts, and Boone sneers at him, perpetually sixteen years old in his memory.

“ _Sure_ it did, Freddy,” and the accent is all Gotham, but it’s Bronx, too, _fuck_. “And whaddya think is going to happen now that you’ve _stopped_ , huh? You think you can just leave it in the past? Oslo. Copenhagen. Madrid. Gotham. You think it’s not gonna all come back at you? ‘Cause it is, _Robin_. It’s all gonna come back at you and Burke and his missus and your little sidekick and that spicy little redhead of yours, and what’re you gonna do about it? Huh, Dick? What’re you gonna do?”

“What’re you gonna _do?_ ”

“Dick?”

“ _Dick!_ ”

Somewhere in the real world, his phone starts blaring _Vissi d’Arte_ and Neal jerks awake so violently that before he knows what’s happening he’s hitting the floor, hip and elbow first, hard enough that he instantly knows there will be bruises tomorrow.

The opera falls silent as the call goes to voicemail but then, before he can even pick himself up off the wooden floor, it starts up again.

He lifts himself up high enough to see the clock and frowns. It’s not even 11:00 yet— he can’t have been asleep for more than two, three hours. What could possibly have happened in so short a time that someone feels the need to call him— _three_ times in a row, now, Montserrat Caballe belting her heart out as he fumbles for the cell.

“Hello?”

He’s not really sure what he’s expecting—Peter, probably, with some new treasure-related accusation—but it’s not the low and urgent, “Get to Peter’s, _now_.”

“Diana?” he says, puzzlement growing. If they’d found some new clue on the treasure, he would have thought Peter would call himself.

Or, no— if that was what this was, then they’d be coming to him, wouldn’t they, not the other way around. And they wouldn’t risk warning him like this. Unless it’s some sort of trap? Some sort of big confronted-with-your-own-lies pseudo-intervention?

No, _no_ , he’s being paranoid; the treasure is gone, the trail of evidence evaporated. It’s over. Dream-Keller is wrong, it can’t touch him anymore.

( _At this point, it shouldn’t be a surprise anymore just how wrong he can be._ )

“It’s Matthew Keller,” Diana says. “He’s back.”

.

.

.

“Neal, he took Elizabeth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Not so much action this chapter (not directly), and we're kind of quickly glossing over some of the events of S3, so I hope it's not too confusing for you guys who aren't as familiar with White Collar. More importantly, we're starting to introduce some WC characters who have thus far only been mentioned, but who will have their own larger roles to play. I don't want to call this a filler chapter so much as... _exposition_ for our next little arc. Plus finally we get a look at the mysterious Vengeance Academy!
> 
> On a slightly different subject... I know that the issue of heritage/identity can sometimes be a delicate subject, and Dick's family history in particular has been retconned and re-retconned and used in kind of hinky ways throughout the years, but when you have an actual Nazi looted treasure, the emotions that's going to elicit are too fascinating to ignore. So in this particular universe, we have a Dick who maybe is vaguely aware of his heritage but doesn't really have a lot of links or knowledge and--because this is truly the second tragedy of him having lost his entire family at such a young age--will never really be able to ask those questions.
> 
> And finally, as always, thank you again for all your patience and your beautiful comments, and I hope you stick around for the rest!
> 
>  
> 
> Next time:
> 
> It’s not a game anymore.


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